WASHINGTON 


rnia 
1 


JANET  A.  FAIRBANK 


1 


COLLEG- 
l.os  ANGELES 


THE  CORTLANDTS  'of 
WASHINGTON  SQUARE 


The  Cortlandts 


Washington  Square 


BY 
JANET  A.  FAIRBANK 


GROSSET    &     DUN  LAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

Made  in  the  United  State*  of  America 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 
BY  THE  BOBBS-MERRUJ-  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


To 
K.F. 


S135497   * 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  NEWS          :.i:.-;.  I 

II  TRANSPLANTED        :«    > ,     .  n 

III  TAKING   ROOT 33 

IV  ESCAPADES 43 

V  ROYALTY 56 

VI  WAR  AND  A  DEBUT 70 

VII  A  PROMISE 85 

VIII  LETTERS •.«•••  102 

IX  OUT   AND   IN in 

X  SERIOUS    BUSINESS 123 

XI  HOSPITALS 131 

XII  WASHINGTON — 'SIXTY-ONE 149 

XIII  FLIGHT .163 

XIV  CHRISTMAS  IN  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  ....  170 
XV  DENSLEY  HOWARD 183 

XVI  DENSLEY  HOWARD  (Continued) 198 

XVII  TRAGEDY 208 

XVIII  ACTION 217 

XIX  ADVENTURES 235 

XX  GETTYSBURG 255 

XXI  OVER  NIGHT 269 

XXII  EN   ROUTE 284 

XXIII  RIOTS        299 

XXIV  HENDRICKS  AND  PETER 312 

XXV  COMPANIONSHIP 323 

XXVI  A    PROPOSAL 330 

XXVII  COURTSHIP 336 

XXVIII  MARRIAGE 356 

XXIX  HONEYMOONING .     .  375 

XXX  THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW  .........  382 


THE  CORTLANDTS  of 
WASHINGTON  SQUARE 


THE    CORTLANDTS 
OF   WASHINGTON    SQUARE 

CHAPTER  I 

NEWS 

A  LITTLE  girl  of  ten  years  was  clearing  the  snow 
from  a  path  leading  to  the  side  door  of  a  farm-house 
so  small  that  it  barely  emerged  from  its  brilliant 
setting.  Its  walls,  a  soiled  yellow-white,  poked  out 
of  the  drifts  with  an  air  of  innocent  disreputability, 
and  its  long  roof  dipped  deep  into  the  solid  snow. 
The  child  put  an  amazing  amount  of  effort  into  her 
work,  and  the  feathery  stuff  flew  from  her  wooden 
shovel,  in  wide  and  glittering  parabolas,  as  she  finished 
each  stroke.  She  did  not  pause  until  she  reached  the 
gate;  then  she  straightened  her  slim  back  experiment- 
ally, and  breathed  deep  of  the  frosty  air.  She  looked 
critically  back  at  the  cleared  path  and  dug  her  shovel 
into  the  deeper  snow  outside  the  fence,  but  this  was 
heavy  work,  and,  moreover,  not  hers,  so  after  a  tenta- 
tive gouge  or  two,  she  gave  it  up  and  retreated  to  the 
gate, -which  stood  open,  sagging  on  primitive  hinges'. 
With  a  wide  sweep  of  her  mittened  hand  she  cleared 
the  top  rail  of  its  encumbrance  of  snow,  and  swung 
herself  up  to  perch  there.  She  sat,  a  funny,  hunched 
little  figure  in  a  tight  jacket,  and  a  full  and  too  short 
skirt  which  betrayed  to  a  censorious  world  extraordi- 

I 


2  THE  CORTLANDTS 

narily  knobby  long  legs.  She  was  a  red-haired  child, 
with  an  eager  wedge  of  a  face  that  took  no  color 
from  the  keen  wind  off  the  New  York  hills;  against 
the  pallor  of  her  cheeks  her  lips  showed  brilliantly 
red,  and  her  eyes  gloomed  deep  and  ceremonious  above 
an  impudent  nose.  On  the  whole,  she  looked  rather 
a  difficult  little  girl ;  the  old  gate  creaked,  protestingly. 
She  gazed  out  indifferently  at  the  sharp  winter 
landscape.  .  .  .  Yesterday  in  church  the  minister 
had  talked  of  missionaries.  .  .  .  Yellow  sands 
and  black  skins,  across  wide  and  tumultuous  seas 
.  .  .  strange  foods,  and  flaring  flowers  .  .  .  palm- 
trees.  .  .  .  The  child  turned  up  her  narrow  palm 
and  scrutinized  it.  Palm-trees?  She  turned  her  hand 
over  and  held  it  experimentally  above  the  snow  heaped 
on  the  gate-post;  it  threw  a  soft  violet  shadow  with 
a  sharp  edge.  ...  Of  course — palm-trees  in  a 
thirsty  land!  Her  opportunity  for  reading  had  been 
limited,  but  from  stern  and  daily  Bible  lessons  she  had 
a  definite,  if  unadjusted,  impression  of  the  Orient. 
Lovely  words  ran  in  and  out  of  her  mind.  .  .  . 
A  land  of  milk  and  honey, — cows  and  bees,  nothing 
so  strange  in  that, — and  spicery  and  balm  and  myrrh, 
whatever  they  might  be,  borne  by  that  vague  animal, 
a  camel.  .  .  .  Cedars  in  Lebanon.  .  .  . 
Dates. — Once  she  had  eaten  a  date,  an  odd  and  de- 
licious albeit  somewhat  musty  morsel.  .  .  .  Oases, 
and  strangely  convivial  wells.  .  .  .  Savages,  all- 
delightful  thought — sinners!  Suppose  she  were  a 
missionary : — a  lady  missionary,  with  sleek  and  obedi- 


NEWS  3 

ent  black  hair,  and  beautiful,— more  lovely  even  than 
her  mother, — so  that  it  would  be  easy  to  save  souls. 
She  would  live  in  a  little  house,  and  have  a  great  many 
children, — missionaries  did,  she  had  mistily  gathered, 
— and  no  one  in  the  whole  of  Africa, — a  large  place, 
she  reflected  triumphantly, — would  save  souls  as  well 
as  she.  She  would  have  to  cross  the  ocean, — and  be 
shipwrecked.  This  was  accustomed  ground,  for  she  was 
an  inland  child,  and  was  always  playing  shipwreck. 
Sometimes  she  was  the  captain  gloriously  going  down 
with  the  ship;  sometimes  his  wife,  saving  him  in  spite 
of  himself;  sometimes  just  a  little  girl, — just  Ann, — 
straining  out  over  the  prow  of  a  laboring  boat,  the 
only  one  to  see  the  light  that  meant  disaster.  .  .  . 
Sharks — thick  in  African  waters, — and  reefs.  .  .  . 

A  lean  little  boy,  whose  red  stockings  and  cap  made 
a  brilliant  splash  of  color  in  the  white  landscape,  came 
whistling  down  the  road.  The  little  girl  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  him,  and  when  he  reached  the  gate  he  paused 
with  elaborate  casualness  to  scoop  up  a  handful  of 
snow. 

"Mad?"  he  inquired,  stopping  to  roll  a  snowball  in 
his  mittened  hands. 

She  swept  a  careless  glance  over  him.  "I  guess 
so,"  she  returned  indifferently. 

"Well, — you  hadn't  ought  to  be!  You  wanted  me 
to  kiss  you." 

"They  are  always  doing  it  in  books.  I  wanted  to 
se^  what  it  was  like." 

'"li  wasn't  my  fault.     I  didn't  want  to — much." 


4  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"You  don't  need  to,  again." 

The  boy  colored  resentfully.  "A  girl  with  red 
hair,"  he  scoffed. 

There  was  a  pause,  while  the  old  gate  wriggled  in 
its  bed  of  snow. 

"Your  mother  coming  home  to-day?" 

"Yep." 

"You'll  catch  it  for  going  through  the  ice !" 

"I  expect  so.     ...     I  had  on  my  best  jacket." 

"The  ice  is  always  thin  over  the  spring.  Didn't 
you  know  that?" 

The  girl  laughed.  "What  d'you  think  I  was  doing 
there,  silly?  It's  no  fun  skating  where  it's  thick!" 

The  boy  looked  at  her  with  reluctant  admiration. 
"You're  a  queer  'un,"  he  remarked,  as  he  kicked  up 
a  cloud  of  soft  white  snow.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  to  detain  him,  yet  he  lingered,  and  turned,  on 
a  sudden  impulse.  "Say,"  he  said,  "is  it  true  that 
your  mother  is  going  to  marry  the  minister?" 

The  girl's  calm  eyes  kindled.  "Who  says  so?"  she 
demanded. 

"Ma." 

"Well,  Peter, — you  can  tell  her  that  she  doesn't 
know  nothing — not  nothing!  That  minister — he's  so 
ugly — and  my  mother !" 

The  boy  hesitated  no  longer  but  went  on  his  way 
with  an  air  of  braggart  relief.  He  had  made  a  hard 
ball  of  his  handful  of  snow,  and  now  he  flung  it.  It 
hit  a  corner  post  of  Ann's  'fence  with  a  loud  smack. 
He  took  up  his  whistle  again,  and  his  frosted  breath 


NEWS  5 

rose  in  a  series  of  gay  clouds  above  his  red  cap,  while 
behind  him  Ann  drooped  on  her  gate.  She  hated  the 
sanctimonious  minister,  and  his  dreary  black  clothes. 
She  wondered  what  she  might  do  if  her  mother  de- 
cided on  this  undesirable  step,  and  dimly  she  perceived 
that  she  could  do  nothing;  the  fearful  impotence  of 
childhood  weighed  her  down,  and  her  queer  little 
face  clouded.  Somehow,  before  this  calamity,  even 
the  rich  fictitious  world  of  her  fancy  seemed  barren. 
Here  was  something  from  which  pretending  shrank. 

After  a  while  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  floated  across 
the  frozen  fields  to  her,  and  she  brightened.  They 
heralded  her  mother's  return  from  New  York  City, 
a  good  seventy  miles  away,  and  she  fixed  eager  eyes  on 
the  turn  in  the  road;  in  a  moment  old  General  and 
the  cutter  rounded  the  big  bare  elm  which  overhung 
the  schoolhouse  at  the  four  corners,  and  Ann  leapt 
from  her  perch,  transfigured  by  excitement. 

"Ma  is  coming!"  she  screamed  shrilly  over  her 
shoulder.  "Ma  is  coming!" 

The  house  door  opened  and  a  tall  spare  woman 
appeared.  As  she  stood  for  an  instant  on  the  thresh- 
old, the  interior  of  the  kitchen  shone  behind  her,  warm 
and  cozy,  and  Ann  caught  a  whiff  of  baking  bread,  un- 
believably enticing. 

"Ma's  here,  Mrs.  Allen,— look !" 

Mrs.  Allen  emerged  and  came  down  Ann's  path, 
wrapped  like  a  mummy  in  a  dull-colored  shawl.  The 
fresh  wind  blew  whirlpools  of  light  snow  across  the 
frozen  crust  of  the  fields,  but  not  a  hair  on  Mrs.  Allen's 


6  THE  CORTLANDTS 

sleek  head  stirred.  She  looked  with  constitutional  dis- 
approval first  at  the  child,  and  then  at  the  approaching 
sleigh;  if  Ann  had  been  older  she  might  have  found 
something  defensive  in  her  determined  suppression  of 
emotion. 

"It  is  high  time  she  came,"  she  said.  "And  she'll  be 
cold, — driving  all  the  way  over  from  Whartley  Town- 
ship on  a  day  like  this." 

Ann  silently  reviewed  the  past  fortnight,  and  gloom- 
ily reflected  that  if  cold  her  mother  would  probably 
be  cross.  The  little  girl  shot  a  soft  glance  at  her  com- 
panion, ingratiation  in  every  line  of  her;  she  hoped 
an  account  of  her  misdeeds  would  not  immediately  be 
offered, — it  was  extraordinary  how  many  things  could 
go  wrong  in  two  weeks, — but  she  had  small  expecta- 
tion of  anything  so  desirable  happening. 

And  then,  suddenly,  she  realized  that  the  woman 
in  the  approaching  sleigh  had  something  foreign  about 
her.  Her  pretty  face,  with  its  cheeks  whipped  a  bright 
red  by  the  cold  wind,  was  the  same,  but  there  was  a 
sort  of  flowing  opulence  in  her  appointments  which 
made  her  seem  alien.  A  great  many  ribbons  and 
ruffles  were  dancing  and  snapping  in  the  breeze,  and 
the  hired  man  who  drove  the  farm  horse  was  lost 
behind  a  surging  billow  of  crinoline.  She  thought 
that  her  mother  had  never  looked  so  beautiful;  her 
pale  hair  shone  richly  gold  against  a  coat  of  black 
fur.  Before  she  could  spring  to  meet  her,  Mrs.  Allen 
grasped  her  shoulder  so  hard  that  it  hurt;  as  Ann 
wriggled  free  she  caught  an  aghast  murmur. 

"My  land, — a  sealskin  sack!" 


NEWS  7 

Suddenly  affection  for  the  pretty  creature  in  the 
sleigh  overcame  Ann,  and  she  plunged  eagerly  out 
into  the  deep  snow  of  the  road,  calling,  unexpectedly 
to  herself :  "Ma !  You'd  never  marry  that  old  minister! 
Say,  ma, — would  you?" 

Her  mother  laughed,  a  gay  thrill  that  brought  two 
dimples  into  play,  and  showed  a -.flash  of  white  teeth. 
"No,  Ann,  never!"  she  called  back,  withdrawing 
her  hand  from  a  tiny  muff  she  carried,  in  order  to 
wave  it  gaily.  Mrs.  Allen  snorted  disapprovingly,  and 
Ann  turned  to  glower  upon  her.  She  resented  the 
too  probable  shattering  of  all  this  happiness. 

The  cutter  drew  up  before  the  cleared  path,  and 
Ann's  mother  stepped  lightly  out  upon  the  firm  snow 
that  creaked  under  her  feet.  She  leaned  forward  over 
her  flowing  skirts  and  kissed  her  daughter  daintily; 
suddenly  her  radiant  face  clouded.  "My,  Ann,"  she 
exclamed,  "you  look  homelier  than  ever."  And  she 
sighed  fretfully  as  she  stood  looking  at  her. 

Mrs.  Allen  intervened.  "Minnie  Byrne,"  she  be- 
gan sternly,  "where  did  you  get  those  clothes?"  And 
catching  sight  of  a  necklace  of  seed  pearls  that  hung 
lustrously  in  the  opening  of  the  sealskin  sack,  she 
paused,  speechless. 

Ann  flung  herself  in  front  of  her  mother.  "Ma 
looks  just  lovely!"  she  declared,  and  she  ran  her  hand 
caressingly  down  the  fur  of  her  mother's  sleeve.  "My, 
how  soft!" 

"It  is  all  right,"  the  newcomer  declared  breathlessly. 
"You  don't  know  what  has  happened  to  me." 

Mrs.  Allen  continued  to  gaze  at  her  with  a  severity 


8 

which  Ann  suddenly  realized  partly  masked  a  disquiet- 
ing fright.  "Considering  that  you  went  to  the  city  to 
see  about  investing  the  last  two  thousand  dollars  you 
had  in  the  world,  and  have  come  back  here  all  tricked 
out  like  this, — I  should  say  that  you  had  lost  your  wits, 
Minnie  Byrne." 

"Well,  I  haven't  .  .  .  I've  spent  a  good  part 
of  the  two  thousand,  though." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  Mrs.  Allen  observed.  She 
steadied  herself  with  one  hand  on  the  gate;  the  fear 
in  her  voice  was  now  plain  to  see  upon  her  rugged 
face. 

"And  that  isn't  all,"  the  newcomer  hurried  on,  "I've 
done  something  worse  than  that.  .  .  .  I've  been 
married !" 

This  declaration  was  received  in  startled  silence. 
Ann,  strangled  with  an  emotion  that  was  half  terror 
and  half  affection,  yet  somehow  wholly  protective, 
clung  to  her  mother's  nervous  hand,  while  Mrs.  Allen 
stared  at  her,  white-faced.  Over  the  side  of  the  cutter 
the  hired  man  gaped,  friendly  and  interested. 

Feeling  the  disapproval  of  her  audience,  the  bride 
flung  up  a  spirited  head.  "You  are  all  ready  to  blame 
me,  aren't  you?"  she  demanded.  "Well, — you  wait 
until  you  hear  whom  I've  married !" 

"I  hope  you  have  married  some  one  who  can  care 
for  you,  Minnie,  in  a  worldly  way,  as  well  as 
spiritually." 

"I've  married  Hudson  Cortlandt,"  she  said,  and 
laughed. 

Even  Ann  knew  this  was  a  name  to  conjure  with, 


NEWS  9 

and  stared  wide-eyed  at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Allen 
leaped  at  a  possible  explanation.  "Some  one  has  been 
imposing  on  you!"  she  cried. 

"No,  it  is  true.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  he  marry 
me?" 

They  went  into  the  farm-house  kitchen,  rigid  in 
spite  of  the  tropical  heat  of  the  wood  fire  that  leaped 
in  the  stove,  and  the  cross-examination  continued. 

"How  did  you  get  to  know  him?" 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  blushed.  "Well,"  she  said,  "the 
first  afternoon  I  was  in  New  York  I  was  walking  in 
Union  Square,  and  I  saw  a  fine  gentleman  ahead  of 
me  drop  a  wallet.  Of  course  I  picked  it  up,  and 
there  was  his  name — Hudson  CortlandL  ...  I 
had  just  read  in  the  papers  that  President  Pierce  had 
appointed  him  minister  to  Switzerland,  and  I  wanted 
to  see  how  he  looked.  ...  I  was  glad  I  was  the 
one  to  find  it.  I  ran  after  him, — and  that  was  the 
beginning." 

"What  did  he  think  of  you,  so  free  as  that?" 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  dimpled  sweetly.  "Well,  he  thought 
I  was  pretty,"  she  said  daringly.  "And  after  he  had 
thanked  me,  he  walked  on  with  me,  and  asked  me  my 
name,  and  if  my  husband  were  in  New  York,  and  I 
told  him  that  Michael  was  dead,  and  then  he  took  me 
back  to  the  St.  Nicholas  Hotel.  He  asked  me  if  my 
room  was  satisfactory,  and  it  wasn't,  very,  so  he  came 
into  the  hotel  with  me  and  spoke  to  the  manager 
about  it,  and  after  that  there  was  nothing  they 
wouldn't  do  for  me,  and  he  stayed  to  talk  with  me 
for  a  while,  in  the  parlor.  .  .  .  When  he  went 


iio  THE  CORTLANDTS 

away  he  asked  me  to  go  driving  with  him  the  next 
afternoon  and  almost  every  day  after  that  he  took  me 
somewhere,  and  ten  days  later  we  were  married!" 

"It  will  be  a  change  for  you,  Minnie, — and  for  Ann." 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Cortlandt's  round  blue  eyes  filled 
with  miserable  tears.  "That  is  the  worst  of  it!"  she 
declared.  "He  doesn't  know  about  Ann." 

"What  do  you  mean, — he  doesn't  know?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  happen  to  mention  her  at  first,— 
and  after, — when  I  saw  he  fancied  me, — I  thought  I 
wouldn't  tell  him  just  then,  and  it  was  always  like 
that.     ...     I  was  afraid,"  she  ended  in  a  miserable 
whisper. 

"And  you  deceived  him?" 

"I  just  didn't  tell  him;  that  isn't  deception,  really. 
He  might  not  have  married  me,  Mrs.  Allen,  and  I 
should  have  had  to  come  back  to  this, — forever!" 

"And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  now  ?" 

"I  shall  take  Ann  back  with  me,  and  he'll  see  her. 
.  .  .  He'll  have  to.  ...  We  are  sailing  for 
Europe  next  week." 

Ann  leaped  to  her  feet,  transfigured,  but  her  mother 
looked  at  her  resentfully.  "Don't  jump  about,  Ann," 
she  said  impatiently,  and  added,  turning  to  Mrs.  Allen : 
"If  only  she  were  pretty!" 

And  so  it  happened  that  the  ducking  of  Ann's  best 
coat  in  the  mill-pond  became  an  unimportant  event, 
and  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  explain  to  an 
uncomprehending  parent  the  allurement  of  skimming 
lightly  over  the  surface  of  thin  ice. 


CHAPTER  II 

TRANSPLANTED 

THE  delight  of  her  first  ride  in  a  train  speedily 
crowded  the  sorrow  of  parting  from  Ann's  mind.  She 
sat  straight  and  taut  on  the  hard  seat  beside  her 
mother,  her  lips  compressed,  her  eyes  blazing.  In- 
side and  out,  the  swift  and  unreal  thing  was  mar- 
velous; she  felt  excitement  run  through  her  as  water 
ran  through  the  brooks  in  the  spring, — a  wild  delicious 
torrent  of  excitement.  Mrs.  Cortlandt  left  her  alone, 
except  that  now  and  then  she  tried  the  effect  of  poking 
her  unfortunate  hair  this  way  or  that,  or  twitched  her 
clothes  in  a  fretful  effort  to  change  the  look  of  the 
child's  eager,  staring  face.  She  cried  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then,  murmuring  that  she  must  not  make 
her  eyes  red,  she  ceased  definitely.  After  that  she 
gazed  moodily  out  of  the  window  at  the  flying  white 
landscape,  and  often  she  sighed  piteously,  with  a 
sobbing  catch  in  her  breath,  like  a  frightened  child. 

To  Ann,  used  only  to  the  tranquillity  of  a  sleepy 
village,  the  confusion  at  the  terminal  was  amazing. 
The  haste  with  which  people  left  the  car  gave  her  a 
sense  of  calamity,  the  keener  because  it  was  unex- 
plained. She  seized  her  mother's  bag  and  hurled  her- 
self into  the  crowded  aisle;  people  drew  back,  frown- 
ing, but  she  gained  the  freedom  of  the  platform  with 
an  exhilarating  feeling  of  triumph. 

II 


12  THE  CORTLANDTS 

A  ferry-boat !  Occasional  copies  of  Harper's  Illus- 
trated Weekly  had  reached  Milton  Center,  and  Ann 
was  prepared  for  the  extraordinary  look  of  these 
maritime  monsters,  but  no  wood-cut  could  have  pre- 
pared her  for  the  sickening  and  delightful  feeling  of 
uncertainty  under  her  feet.  She  seized  her  mother's 
arm  appealingly,  in  an  ecstasy  of  excitement,  and  the 
pallid  lady  said  absently,  "Yes, — horrid,  isn't  it?" 
Ann  abandoned  her  and  wormed  through  the  group 
of  people  at  the  bow.  Ice  cakes!  Actually  ice  cakes, 
that  slipped  away  from  the  blunt  prow  of  the  ferry, 
and  now  and  then  crunched  delightfully.  She  leaned 
on  the  rail  and  gloated.  This  was  better  than  sharks. 
.  .  .  How  prettily  the  round  white  cakes  rode  the 
blue  surface  of  the  water!  Away  off  to  one  side  she 
looked  and  looked,  and  could  see  no  opposite  shore. 
.  .  .  The  sea  ?  Her  eyes  ached  from  the  blueness. 
.  .  .  Coming  toward  them  down  the  river,  with 
swelling  canvas  set,  was  a  slender  and  towering  ship; 
she  cut  the  water  smartly,  and  it  fell  away  before  her 
in  a  trim  and  shining  roll  on  either  side.  She  passed 
so  close  that  the  child  could  see  the  quick  moving 
figures  of  men, — swarthy  of  face,  and  foreign.  One 
leaned  on  the  rail  and  waved  at  the  lumbering  ferry- 
boat He  had  rings  in  his  ears!  Ann  waved  back, 
unseen;  she  was  pledging  herself  to  romance.  The 
water  in  the  wake  bubbled  creamily, — it  was  like  the 
top  of  the  milk  pail,  at  home, — and  gold  print  on  the 
stern  said  Santa  Lucia,  Venczia. 

Ahead  of  them  the  shore  sloped  swiftly  back  from 


TRANSPLANTED  13 

the  water-front;  and  in  the  foreground  the  high 
steeple  of  a  church  shepherded  a  huddled  collection  of 
buildings.  The  late  afternoon  sun  mellowed  the  red 
brick  surfaces  of  the  nearer  houses,  and  picked  out 
the  snow-covered  roofs  in  blocks  of  black  and  white. 
Ann  had  never  known  that  a  city  could  be  like  that, — 
miles  of  it,  overwhelming  and  intriguing.  Behind  the 
town  the  open  country  lay;  she  could  just  make  out 
woods  and  farms; — familiar  things  and  friendly. 
Suddenly  the  portentous  ferry-house  swallowed  them 
up.  Ann  shrank  back  from  the  jarring  grind  of  the 
landing,  convinced  that  no  mere  boat  could  stand  such 
treatment!  The  crowd  swelled  forward,  and  her 
mother  reclaimed  her  rebukingly.  Outside  the  ferry- 
house  they  paused,  aghast.  Not  wishing  to  break  the 
news  of  Ann's  existence  to  her  husband  on  the  ferry- 
dock,  Mrs.  Cortlandt  had  not  notified  him  of  the  hour 
of  her  arrival,  and  for  all  her  fashionable  clothes,  she 
was  almost  as  dazed  by  the  city's  confusion  as  Ann, 
who  frankly  gaped,  and  adored  it.  There  were  dozens 
of  darting  sleighs,  more,  in  a  few  feet,  than  in  all 
Milton  Center,  and  the  air  was  clamorous  with  their 
bells.  The  people  on  the  sidewalks,  leisurely  ladies 
in  wide  crinolines  and  fine  gentlemen  with  glossy 
side-whiskers  and  high  hats,  seemed  as  unreal  to  her 
as  pictures  in  Godey's  Ladies'  Book.  The  child  clung 
tightly  to  her  mother's  hand,  abashed,  but  she  pulled 
her  forward,  nevertheless. 

The  Knickerbocker  stage  was  waiting  as  they  came 
from  the  narrow  tunnel  of  the  ferry-house.     The  four 


14  THE  CORTLANDTS 

big  horses  that  drew  it  pranced  in  the  trodden  snow, 
and  the  bells  on  their  necks  glistened  in  the  sunlight. 
Mrs.  Cortlandt  and  Ann  climbed  in  and  seated  them- 
selves on  the  long  bench  that  ran  down  the  side  of 
the  coach.  The  little  girl  was  eager  to  start;  she 
looked  impatiently  from  the  driver  on  his  high  throne 
in  front  to  the  conductor  at  his  place  on  the  steps  in 
the  rear,  and  kicked  her  feet  restlessly  in  the  straw 
of  the  floor.  Beside  her,  her  mother  sat  trembling 
visibly;  it  was  evident  to  the  most  casual  beholder 
that  Mrs.  Hudson  Cortlandt  was  badly  frightened. 

At  length  they  started,  with  a  jingling  of  bells  and 
a  plunging  of  horses  that  made  the  people  on  the  street 
turn  to  watch  them  glide  past.  Ann  pressed  her  face 
to  the  window,  now  and  then  impatiently  wiping  away 
the  cloud  of  her  breath  on  the  glass.  It  was  an  amaz- 
ing thing  to  her  to  see  rows  of  houses  close  together; 
and  the  newer  parts  of  Greenwich  Village,  where  th& 
buildings  were  of  the  opulent  three-story-and-basement 
order,  filled  her  with  a  breathless  awe.  Everything 
she  saw  enchanted  her;  even  the  bare  ailantus  trees 
seemed  a  better  thing,  in  their  novelty,  than  the  tower- 
ing elms  she  had  known. 

She  was  loath  to  leave  the  stage  with  further  dis- 
tricts unexplored,  and  at  the  same  time  she  longed  to 
mingle  with  the  people  on  the  sidewalks.  The  streets 
where  the  New  York  boys  were  snowballing  seemed 
to  her  a  better  place  to  play  than  a  village  common. 
She  wondered  what  they  would  think  if  they  knew 
she  could  throw  as  well  as  any  of  them. 


TRANSPLANTED  15 

Washington  Square  was  her  mother's  destination, 
for  here,  on  the  fringe  of  the  town,  the  Cortlandts 
and  a  few  other  leading  families  had  recently  built 
themselves  new  houses.  The  place  was  enclosed  with 
a  high  iron  fence,  which  gave  the  little  park  an  air  of 
gentility.  Ann  looked  with  darkening  eyes  at  the 
ample,  dignified  houses,  rose  pink  against  the  snow. 

"Does  my  new  father  live  here?"  she  demanded. 
A  lonely  feeling  made  her  voice  break.  Suddenly  she 
realized  for  the  first  time  the  threat  of  a  strange  rela- 
tionship. She  wondered  if  he,  too,  would  have  glossy 
side-whiskers,  terrifying  and  dominant. 

Her  mother  nodded.  "His  brother  does,"  she  said, 
"Mr.  Hendricks  CortlandL  Your — my — Mr.  Hud- 
son Cortlandt  lives  with  him." 

It  was  the  largest  of  the  houses  that  she  timidly 
approached,  and,  clinging  tremulously  to  Ann,  sum- 
moned courage  to  climb  the  wide  steps,  and  pull  a  sil- 
ver bell  handle  mysteriously  set  beside  the  glass  door. 
A  black  man  came  to  admit  them,  and  Ann  looked  at 
him  gapingly,  unable,  in  her  surprise,  to  return  his 
gleaming  smile.  He  was  the  first  negro  she  had  seen, 
and  she  felt  that  life  was  indeed  opening  before  her. 
Mrs.  Cortlandt  paused. 

"Is  Mr.  Hendricks  Cortlandt  at  home?"  she  asked 
and  her  voice  trembled. 

"Yas'm.  He  is  in  de  library."  With  a  dexterous 
turn,  the  man  shut  the  front  door  behind  them,  and 
opened  one  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  wide  hall. 
Ann  had  a  quick  impression  of  a  lofty  room,  all 


16  THE  CORTLANDTS 

lined  with  books, — she  had  never  dreamed  that  there 
could  be  so  many, — and  of  the  late  afternoon  sun  com- 
ing through  the  windows  in  long  yellow  streaks  so 
that  a  fire  under  a  narrow  marble  mantel  glowed  red. 
Then  she  saw  a  tall  oldish  man  rise  from  his  chair 
and  come  forward.  Immediately  she  liked  him,  in 
spite  of  her  breathless  nervousness. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  Ann  heard  him  say,  "back 
again?"  And  then  his  eyes  fell  on  her.  He  looked 
at  her  in  kindly  perplexity.  "And  who  is  this  young 
lady?"  he  asked. 

The  little  girl  glanced  expectantly  at  her  mother, 
but  no  sound  came  from  her  white  lips,  so  she  said, 
as  cheerfully  as  she  could :  "I  am  Ann,"  and,  catching 
no  gleam  of  intelligence  in  his  attentive  eyes,  she  added, 
"Ann  Byrne,  you  know." 

Mr.  Cortlandt  continued  to  look  at  her  blankly. 
Slowly  a  realization  of  who  she  might  be  dawned  on 
him,  and  he  turned  his  steady  gaze  on  his  sister-in-law, 
as  she  trembled  before  him. 

"Your  child?"  he  inquired  coldly. 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  sank  into  a  chair;  she  was  manifestly 
struggling  with  tears.  "Yes,"  she  admitted  briefly. 

"A  child !  But  my  brother  said  you  had  no  family. 
.  .  .  Does  he  know,  madam  ?" 

As  her  mother  was  now  frankly  crying,  Ann  took 
up  the  burden  of  their  sorry  tale.  "She  didn't  tell 
him,"  she  confided.  "I  am  a  surprise,  and  it  is  too 
bad  I  am  not  pretty." 


TRANSPLANTED  17 

The  head  of  the  house  of  Cortlandt  straightened  up 
scornfully.  "Ah,"  he  said,  "I  see." 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence  in  the  library: 
it  was  broken  by  Ann,  who  volunteered  cheerfully, 
"She  has  to  tell  my  new  father,  now,  all  about  me." 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  looked  up  to  nod  a  miserable  assent 
to  this  announcement. 

"It  might  have  been — less  embarrassing,  if  you  had 
done  so — earlier.  He  was  insane  about  you." 

"I  was  afraid." 

"I  see.  We  shall  have  to  tell  him,  however.  Is 
this  the  only  one,  madam?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Cortlandt  said,  in  shocked  surprise, 
"of  course,  if  there  had  been  more  I  should  have  told 
him!" 

"Let  me  look  at  you,  young  lady."  He  put  a  gentle 
hand  under  Ann's  sharp  chin,  and  turned  her  face 
toward  him. 

"She  has  never  looked  like  me,"  her  mother 
mourned.  "She  is  like  her  father,  in  every  way." 

"This  makes  the  man  important.  .  .  .  What 
was  your  first  husband?" 

"He  ran  a  newspaper, — just  a  country  one.  He 
always  expected  to  do  better,  but  then  he  died." 

Ann  wriggled  away  from  the  stranger's  improprie- 
tory  touch.  "My  father  was  Irish,"  she  volunteered, 
"and  he  was  very  clever,  and  he  had  red  hair,  like 
me!" 

"Machree  got  into  trouble  in  Fenian  riots, — I  never 


1 8  THE  CORTLANDTS 

knew  just  what  he  did, — but  he  had  to  leave  Ireland. 
.  .  .  We  were  only  married  a  few  years.  .  .  . 
He  was  always  expecting  to  do  something  he  didn't: 
he  was  a  great  man  to  plan,  but  it  is  true,  he  was 
clever.  ...  He  was  always  getting  into  trouble, 
and  he  never  would  listen  to  what  I  told  him.  .  .  . 
What  do  you  think  Hudson  will  do?" 

"There  is  only  one  way  to  answer  that/'  Mr.  Cort- 
landt  said  simply.  He  crossed  the  room  with  long 
determined  strides  to  summon  the  man  in  the  hall. 
"Tell  Mr.  Hudson  his  wife  is  here,"  he  directed. 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  alternately  turned  the  curl  of  fair 
hair  that  hung  from  beneath  her  bonnet  about  her 
slender  fingers,  and  dabbled  at  her  eyes  with  her  hand- 
kerchief. "I  am  frightened,"  she  confided  unnecessar- 
ily. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  turned  to  Ann.  "We  have  only  just 
finished  supper,"  he  said.  "Suppose  you  and  I  go  and 
see  if  there  is  any  left."  The  child  glanced  Irreso- 
lutely at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Cortlandt  looked  very 
small  and  miserable,  crouched  in  a  chair  by  the  win- 
dow, where  the  gray  light  of  an  early  winter  twilight 
faded  her  blonde  radiance  to  drab.  Ann  wanted  to 
stay  with  her,  but  suddenly  she  realized  that  she  was 
devastatingly  hungry.  Her  mother  caught  her  eye. 

"Go  with  him,  Ann,  for  mercy  sakes!"  she  urged 
irritably. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  laughed,  for  some  unexplained, 
grown-up  reason,  and  led  her  away  through  folding- 
doors  into  what  seemed  indubitably,  fairyland.  Her 


TRANSPLANTED  19 

first  impression  was  of  a  great  glare  of  light; 
it  was  like  noon-day  in  the  big  empty  room,  and 
she  blinked,  bewildered.  There  were  none  of  the 
engulfing  shadows  and  obliterated  far  corners  to  which 
she  was  accustomed;  the  hard  radiance  seemed  to  her 
antagonistic.  Directly  under  an  overpowering  brass 
chandelier  was  a  square  table  covered  with  a  cloth  so 
white  that  it  glistened  like  snow:  this,  then,  was  the 
dining-room.  In  Milton  Center  one  sewed,  read  and 
sometimes  slept  in  such  an  apartment,  but  this  one 
seemed  sacred  to  the  business  of  dining.  She  looked 
about  her  with  avid  curiosity.  On  the  center  of  the 
table  a  blue  glass  vase  on  a  marble  base  held  a  handful 
of  roses, — actually  roses,  in  January!  On  one  wall 
was  a  huge  black  walnut  sideboard,  with  a  deer's  head 
and  horns,  all  made  of  polished  wood,  surmounting  it. 
It  was  loaded,  inexplicably,  with  numerous  shining 
silver  dishes,  and  in  the  center  there  was  a  glass  bowl 
larger  than  a  milk  pan,  cut  so  that  it  quivered  in  tiny 
glittering  points  like  flames.  Hung  high  on  the  walls 
were  dark-colored  pictures  of  frowning  men  and  smil- 
ing ladies,  in  massive  gilt  frames  that  caught  the  light 
in  long  golden  streaks. 

"What  is  it?"  Ann  demanded  breathlessly,  pointing 
to  the  fixture  from  whence  the  glory  sprang. 

"The  chandelier?"  Mr.  Cortlandt  inquired,  be- 
wildered in  his  turn. 

"No,  the  light.  It  isn't  candles, — it  isn't  paraffine, 
it—" 

"Oh,  that!    .     .     .     It  is  gas." 


20  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Oh !"  She  recalled  weary  hours  filling  lamps.  ''Do 
you  put  it  in,  like  oil?" 

"No.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  about  it,  but  first  we 
must  have  supper.  Are  you  hungry?" 

Ann  gasped.  It  was  extraordinary,  but  the  enor- 
mous appetite  which  had  ravaged  her  but  a  moment 
before  was  gone.  "I — don't  know,"  she  confessed. 
She  could  not  have  said  why,  but  she  was  horribly 
afraid  that  she  was  going  to  cry ! 

Mr.  Cortlandt  drew  a  chair  out  for  her  and,  pulling 
a  bell  cord,  he  summoned  the  black  man  and  told  him 
to  bring  food.  "You  didn't  have  gas  in — er — Milton 
Center?"  he  suggested. 

Ann  shook  her  head ;  her  eyes  were  swimming  with 
tears,  and  met  Mr.  Cortlandt's  miserably. 

Suddenly  he  pulled  his  chair  closer  to  hers,  and  be- 
gan to  talk  to  her,  rapidly  and  continuously:  at  first 
she  was  so  occupied  in  fighting  down  her  inconvenient 
emotion  that  she  paid  little  attention,  but  presently  she 
understood  that  he  was,  with  extraordinary  kindness, 
telling  her  all  about  gas,  where  it  was  made,  how  it 
was  stored  and  distributed,  and  the  changes  its  use  had 
made  in  cities.  She  began  to  listen  attentively.  She 
forgot  all  about  the  delicious  things  she  was  eating  as 
the  tale  ran  on ;  she  was  more  interested  than  she  had 
ever  been  before  in  all  her  life. 

After  that  they  began  to  talk  of  Milton  Center,  and 
she  spoke  of  Mrs.  Allen  casually. 

"You  lived  with  her?"  Mr.  Cortlandt  leaned  for- 
ward. 


TRANSPLANTED  21 

"Yes.     .     .     .     Isn't  your  brother  a  Christian?" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  sat  back  suddenly.  "I  hope  so,"  he 
said.  "Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Allen  took  ma  and  me  to  live  with  her 
because  she  was  a  Christian,"  Ann  explained.  "She 
often  said  so.  ...  She  said  she  hoped  she  was 
laying  up  treasures  in  Heaven.  And  I  hope  so,  too." 

"Your  mother  had  no  money  at  all?" 

"Oh,  yes,  ma  had  two  thousand  dollars.  That  is  a 
great  amount  of  money.  Mrs.  Allen  always  said  it 
was  a  sacred  trust: — that  was  when  ma  wanted  to 
spend  it,  you  see." 

"Yes,  I  see.  And  what  did  you  do  in  Milton  Center, 
Miss  Ann?" 

"I  went  to  school.  I  don't  like  my  teacher, — not 
much.  And  of  course  I  did  chores." 

"What  sort  of  chores?" 

"Just  helping  'round ;  feeding  the  chickens,  an'  help- 
ing get  supper,  an'  washing  up." 

This   was    dear   and    familiar   ground,    and   Ann 

chatted  pleasantly  on.     Her  heart  warmed  toward  Mr. 

Cortlandt  in  reward  for  his  kindly  interest;  and  she 

,  poured  out  unstintingly  the  simple  story  of  her  life 

"  and  her  mother's.     It  was  a  good  half -hour  before  she 

thought  of  returning  to  the  library. 

As  Mr.  Cortlandt  slid  back  the  folding-door,  the 
sound  of  a  man's  voice,  harsh  and  angry,  burst  in  on 
them.  "My  new  'father?"  Ann  demanded,  frowning. 

Her  friend  nodded,  and  she  peered  into  the  room 
under  his  arm.  A  tall  man  was  striding  furiously 


22  THE  CORTLANDTS 

about,  and  sure  enough,  he  had  side-whiskers, — un- 
usually flamboyant  ones.  "It  isn't  that  I  resent  the 
child,"  he  was  storming.  "It  is  the  deceit  I  can  not 
forgive.  The  child,  of  course,  is  a  responsibility, — I 
am  not  a  man  to  shirk  that, — but  I  hate  deceit!"  He 
turned,  as  his  brother  opened  the  door.  "Do  you 
know  what  she  has  done?"  he  demanded. 

Mr.  Hendricks  Cortlandt  nodded,  and  held  Ann 
back,  as  she  would  have  pushed  indignantly  past  him. 
"There's  only  one,  you  know,  Hudson,"  he  said  pa- 
cifically. "There  might  just  as  well  have  been  six.'* 

His  brother  paused,  arrested.  "Six?"  he  repeated. 
The  word  had  the  force  of  an  explosion. 

The  older  man  laughed,  and  Ann  wondered  why. 
"Of  course,"  he  said,  "it  would  have  made  no  differ- 
ence had  there  been,  since  it  is  the  deceit  that  you 
resent,  and  not  the  children." 

"Minnie,"  her  husband  roared  at  her,  frantic  appeal 
in  his  voice,  "are  there  others?"  The  bride  was  so 
overcome  by  his  violence  that  she  merely  shook  her 
head  speechlessly,  but  Ann  flung  off  her  friend's  re- 
straining hand  and  burst  into  the  room.  She  con- 
fronted her  stepfather  fiercely;  her  hands  were 
clenched  into  little  fists. 

"Don't  you  dare  speak  to  my  mother  like  that !"  she 
said.  She  kept  her  voice  very  low,  to  be  sure  that  the 
terror  she  felt  should  not  break  into  it. 

Hudson  Cortlandt  glared  at  her,  eye  to  eye;  then 
he  swung  away,  and  appealed  to  the  world  at  large. 
''Is  this  the  child  my  wife  asks  me  to  take  to  my 


TRANSPLANTED  23 

bosom?     This   red-headed,   gawky   girl?     This   spit- 
lire?" 

''The  deceit  would  have  been  less,  I  have  no  doubt, 
had  she  not  had  red  hair,"  his  brother  interposed 
peaceably,  and  to  her  amazement  Ann  found  her- 
self laughing  convulsively,  in  spite  of  her  anger  and 
fright. 

Hudson  came  suddenly  down  to  earth.  "Well,"  he 
announced,  "Minnie  will  have  to  choose  between  us, — 
the  child  or  me." 

There  was  a  sudden  silence  in  the  room,  broken  only 
by  the  culprit's  sobs.  Her  husband  then  addressed 
himself  directly  to  her.  "I  won't  have  her,  that's  flat. 
.  .  .  If  you'll  leave  her,  I'll  take  you  with  me; — 
if  not,  I'm  done  with  you !" 

Something  in  her  mother's  lifted  face  frightened 
Ann,  and  she  found  resolution  for  further  defiance. 
"We  don't  want  to  go  with  you,"  she  declared  passion- 
ately. "You  can  go  off  to  Europe  by  yourself.  .  . 
We'll  stay  here."  She  ended  on  a  softened  note,  and 
she  turned  her  eyes  slantingly  on  her  new  friend.  She 
thought  that  he  received  this  declaration  somewhat 
coldly,  and  her  heart  skipped  a  beat  miserably.  He 
was  looking  at  his  brother  with  an  expression  that 
terrified  her. 

"What  do  you  wish,  Mrs.  Cortlandt?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  know!"  she  sobbed.  "I  am  so  unhappy! 
How  can  I  go?"  .  .  .  How  can  I  stay?"  She 
looked  imploringly  from  Ann  to  her  husband,  before 
she  buried  her  face  in  a  minute  pocket  handkerchief. 


24 

Hudson  Cortlandt  was  softened  by  this  wailing  ap- 
peal. "I  am  willing  to  look  after  the  girl,"  he  said 
uncomfortably.  "You  could  leave  her  in  good  hands." 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  looked  up  with  a  gleam  of  returning 
cheerfulness.  "I  suppose  I  might,"  she  murmured. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  can't  send  her  back  where 
she  came  from;  it  will  be  the  same  for  her  as  if  you 
had  never  married  me,  except  that  her  keep  will  be 
paid.  .  .  .  We  sail  in  a  week,"  he  added  briskly. 
He  was  obviously  glad  not  to  break  with  the  pretty 
creature  he  had  married.  He  turned  to  his  brother, 
with  a  specious  relief  in  his  manner.  "It  is  all  per- 
fectly simple  after  all, — isn't  it?" 

Mr.  Hendricks  Cortlandt  looked  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  Ann  wondered  if  it  was  something  in  his 
steady  gaze  that  caused  the  younger  man  to  drop  his 
eyes  uneasily.  At  length  he  said,  "I  shall  be  alone 
here,  when  you  are  gone.  .  .  .  It  is  possible  that 
I  might,  for  a  time,  undertake  the  responsibility  of 
Miss  Ann, — with  the  understanding,  of  course,  that 
you  will,  later  on,  relieve  me."  He  turned  to  the  silent 
child.  "Would  you  like  to  stay  with  me?"  he  asked 
gently. 

Ann  felt  the  tears  burn  against  her  eyelids,  so  she 
only  nodded.  She  felt  miserably  certain  that  he  did 
not  want  her.  He  turned  to  Mrs.  Cortlandt.  "I  assure 
you,  madam,  that  your  daughter  will  be  as  well  cared 
for  as  lies  in  my  power.  Perhaps  a  little  girl  in  my 
home  may  prove  a  blessing.  Eh,  Miss  Ann  ?" 


TRANSPLANTED  25 

The  child  was  spared  the  difficulty  of  an  answer,  for 
at  the  moment  when  she  felt  that  a  supreme  effort  of 
some  sort  was  expected  of  her,  the  library  door  swung 
open,  and  a  high  dear  voice  cried,  "Do  I  intrude, 
Hendricks?" 

"Gad!"  said  Hudson.  "It's  Clarissa!"  Ann  was 
conscious  of  a  general  dismay,  and  that  it  centered 
mysteriously  on  her. 

She  had  never  known  any  one  could  be  so  lovely 
as  the  lady  who  appeared  in  the  high  doorway.  Her 
hair  was  warmly  brown,  and  shining;  it  hung  about 
her  face  in  artful  and  complicated  arrangements,  and 
her  eyes  were  shining  and  quick  and  pretty,  above  her 
bright  pink  cheeks.  Her  throat  was  very  long,  and 
so  white  that  it  seemed  almost  dazzling  where  a  black 
velvet  band  clasped  its  slimness,  and  her  shoulders  were 
white,  too,  and  sloped  beautifully  down  to  a  ridicu- 
lous puff  of  a  pale  blue  sleeve  half-way  to  her  elbow. 
Her  skirts  were  very  wide,  and  Ann  had  never  seen 
so  tiny  a  waist.  Compared  with  its  brittle  elegance 
her  mother's  hard  country  thinness  had  a  common 
look.  She  laughed  as  she  came  down  the  room, 
showing  pretty  white  teeth. 

"A  family  jar  already,  Hudson?"  she  demanded, 
sending  quick  and  amused  glances  from  her  embar- 
rassed brother  to  his  limp  bride.  "Doves  in  their 
little  nest,  you  know!"  She  turned  to  Mr.  Cortlandt 
and  her  darting  look  dropped  to  Ann,  who  stood 
pressed  close  beside  him. 


26  JHE  CORTLANDTS 

"Why, — where  did  you  find  that,  Hendricks?"  she 
queried,  her  voice  suddenly  shrill,  and  all  the  smiling 
sweetness  gone  from  her  eyes. 

"This  is  Miss  Ann  Byrne,  Clarissa,  and  fate  has  sent 
her  to  me." 

Ann  moved  clumsily  forward  as  she  heard  her- 
self thus  singled  out,  but  the  shining  creature  before 
her  made  no  move  in  her  direction.  Instead  she  looked 
at  her  brother  in  frozen  amazement,  and  a  quick  flush 
dyed  even  her  white  throat. 

"You  mean?"  she  began,  and  paused. 

"She  is  Hudson's  stepdaughter,  but  it  has  been  ar- 
ranged that  she  is  to  stay  here  with  me." 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  swung  around  to  her  younger 
brother,  with  a  great  swirl  of  blue  gauze  skirts.  "So !" 
she  cried.  "This  is  what  your  mad  marriage  has  done ! 
lA  child, — left  here  with  Hendricks !" 

"I  believe  that  I  am  glad  to  have  her,  Clarissa,"  Mr. 
Cortlandt  intervened.  "Already  I  am  charmed  with 
her." 

"Charmed?"  Her  eyes  swept  Ann  from  her  un- 
tidy red  hair  to  her  shabbily  shod  feet,  and  she  laughed 
incredulously.  "You  are  making  the  best  of  it,— 
that  is  evident, — but  why  should  she  stay  with  you? 
Can't  Hudson  assume  his  responsibilities  ?  If  you  want 
a  child  about, — and  I  am  sure  I  don't  understand  why 
you  do, — there's  my  Hendricks,  or  little  Fanny  Cort- 
landt." 

"That  will  do,  Clarissa!"    Mr.  Cortlandt  spoke  so 


TRANSPLANTED  27 

sternly  that  Ann  shrank  back,  frightened.  "To  what 
are  we  indebted  for  the  honor  of  this  visit?*' 

"I  have  a  loge  at  Tripler's  Hall  to-night;  I  came 
in  to  see  if  Hudson  and  my  charming  new  sister- 
in-law  would  care  to  share  it  with  me.  It  is  Madame 
Rachel." 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Hudson.  "She  is  that  famous 
French  actress,  isn't  she?  I  could  be  ready  in  a  very 
few  moments, — fifteen,  at  the  most!" 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  swept  her  with  indifferent  eyes. 
She  was  no  longer  flushed :  indeed,  she  looked  rather 
white,  except  for  the  determined  pink  of  her  cheeks. 
"Very  well,"  she  said,  indifferently.  She  established 
herself  in  a  chair  by  the  fire,  arranging  her  skirts  with 
considerable  pomp,  and  opening  a  fan  which  dangled 
from  her  waist,  to  shield  herself  from  the  flames. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  seated  himself  opposite  her,  leaning 
toward  her  with  a  curious  look  of  an  antagonist. 
"Go  with  your  mother,  Ann,"  he  said.  "You  can 
doubtless  help  her  hurry." 

And  so  Ann's  future  was  decided.  When  she  was 
alone  with  her  mother,  during  the  last  precious  week 
of  their  companionship,  she  found  that  the  only  way 
to  avoid  mutual  tears  was  not  to  mention  the  coming 
parting,  so  she  obligingly  refrained.  There  were 
plenty  of  other  things  to  think  about.  In  the  first 
place  she  was  plunged  into  an  orgy  of  buying.  She 
and  her  mother  both  had  completely  new  wardrobes. 
The  pretty  bride  bought  lavishly,  in  spite  of  her 


28  THE  CORTLANDTS 

imminent  visit  to  Paris,  and  Ann  became  the  be- 
wildered possessor  of  woolen  dresses  with  stiffening 
in  the  full  ankle-length  skirts,  pantalettes  that  tied 
on  above  her  knee,  and  hung,  white  and  prim,  below 
them,  and,  actually,  a  taffeta,  in  checks  of  green  and 
black,  with  white  ruffles  in  the  sleeves,  and  black 
velvet  bands  about  its  low-cut  neck.  Milton  Center 
had  never  known  its  like;  Ann  could  scarcely  rec- 
ognize herself  when  she  stood,  arrayed  in  it,  before 
the  tall  pier  glass  in  the  drawing-room.  But  she  was, 
she  decided  gloomily,  no  prettier,  for  all  her  fine 
clothes. 

The  days  flew  by.  On  one  of  them  Mr.  Cortlandt 
ordered  out  his  smart  cutter  and  drove  Ann  away 
out  to  the  colored  orphan  asylum  at  Forty-second 
Street  and  Fifth  Avenue,  so  that  she  might  bestow 
upon  the  worthy  poor  those  old  clothes  which  she  had, 
in  Milton  Center,  packed  with  so  much  respect.  She 
found  the  role  of  Lady  Bountiful  embarrassing,  but 
delightful,  and  came  home  in  high  spirits.  On  an- 
other afternoon  she  and  her  mother  interviewed  gover- 
nesses. It  seemed  that  Mrs.  Renneslyer  had  vetoed  a 
school.  "Until  she  is  tamed,"  she  said  coolly,  and 
so,  to  Ann's  great  delight,  it  was  decided  that  she  was 
to  be  educated  at  home.  Mrs.  Cortlandt  was  quite  ill 
at  ease  before  the  elegant  creatures  who  came  to  see 
her,  but  finally  chose  one  who  had,  in  her  youth,  been 
in  France.  "Ann  can  get  the  accent,  but  not  the 
morals,"  she  told  Mr.  Cortlandt,  quite  like  a  woman 
of  the  world. 


TRANSPLANTED  29 

People  came  and  went  during  the  swift  interlude, 
but  the  child  retained  no  clear  memory  of  them.  Mrs. 
Renneslyer  was  the  only  one  whose  initial  impres- 
sion persisted  through  later  familiarity;  Ann  always 
remembered  the  malicious  prettiness  of  her  first  ap- 
pearance. At  her  brother-in-law's  request,  Mrs.  Will- 
iam Cortlandt  brought  her  daughter  Fanny  to  see 
the  newcomer,  but  the  two  children  were  shy  of  each 
other,  and  Ann  had  no  time  for  contemporaneous 
intimacy  in  her  last  days  with  her  mother.  Mrs. 
Hudson  was  inclined  to  like  this  sister-in-law.  "She 
doesn't  make  me  feel  uncomfortable,  as  Clarissa  does," 
she  confided  to  her  daughter,  and  Ann  could  readily 
understand  that,  as  Fanny's  mother  was  a  stout  and 
breathless  lady,  with  none  of  Mrs.  Renneslyer's  over- 
powering elegance.  Moreover,  she  looked  at  her 
brother-in-law's  beautiful  bride  with  reluctant  but  en- 
dearing admiration,  although  any  reference  to  Ann's 
indefinite  visit  in  Washington  Square  turned  her 
flushed  cheeks  purple. 

"She  is  a  widow,  just  as  I  was/'  Mrs.  Hudson  in- 
formed Ann.  "Except  that  her  little  girl  is  pretty. 
Fanny  is  sweet,  isn't  she?  I  hope  you  will  try  to  be 
like  her,  Ann:  she  is  such  a  little  lady.  Hudson  says 
that  when  her  father  died,  years  ago,  his  wife  wanted 
to  come  here  to  live,  and  that  he  and  Mr.  Renneslyer 
made  horrid  bets  as  to  whether  she  would  land  Mr. 
Hendricks  Cortlandt  as  a  second  husband  or  not. 
.  .  .  She  didn't,  of  course,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't 
wonder,  although  Hudson  says  that  she  was  quite 


30  [THE  CORTLANDTS 

pretty,  once."  The  bride  preened  herself  before  her 
mirror,  secure  in  her  young  good  looks.  "Funny,  isn't 
it,  that  Mr.  Hendricks  Cortlandt  has  never  married?" 

"Why  hasn't  he?"  Ann  demanded. 

"Hudson  says  it  is  because  he  has  never  unbent 
enough  to  fall  in  love,  but  I  don't  know.  ...  It 
doesn't  sound  sensible;  it  is  so  easy  to  fall  in  love. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  he  is  shy,  under  that  mangnificent 
manner!"  She  laughed  delightedly  at  the  possibility 
that  the  formality  which-  made  her  uneasy  masked  a 
human  weakness.  "Do  you  like  me  in  blue?"  she 
asked  her  little  girl,  who  adored  her  in  anything. 

Ann  clung  to  her  in  a  way  that  was  flattering  but 
disconcerting.  She  followed  her  miserably  about  the 
house;  stood  beside  her  bureau  when  she  curled  her 
blonde  hair;  helped  her  to  button  the  complicated  new 
frocks,  and  to  pack  her  finery  into  two  shiny  new 
trunks.  She  was  always  under  her  stepfather's  feet, 
but  she  bore  it  stolidly,  and  was  relieved  to  find  that 
he,  too,  suppressed  his  irritation  at  her  constant  pres- 
ence. 

Notwithstanding  all  their  preparations,  however,  it 
was  not  until  they  clung  together  at  the  dock  that 
the  mother  and  daughter  suddenly  admitted  the  serious 
nature  of  their  separation.  Mrs.  Cortlandt  shed  a 
Ifew  gentle  tears,  and  prettily  besought  her  brother- 
in-law  to  be  kind  to  his  charge,  but  Ann  only  hung 
desperately  about  her  mother's  neck,  dry-eyed  and 
silent.  In  looking  back  on  the  leave-taking  it  always 
seemed  to  her  that  in  the  moment  before  the  gang- 


TRANSPLANTED  31 

plank  was  withdrawn,  she  grew  appreciably  older. 
She  never  forgot  the  feel  of  her  mother's  cool  fresh 
cheek  against  her  own,  or  the  last  lovely  glimpse  of 
her,  young,  agitated  and  charming,  as  she  leaned  out 
over  the  stern,  between  the  churning  side-paddles,  cry- 
ing and  smiling  together,  and  waving  and  kissing  both 
her  hands  to  the  old  man  and  the  child  on  the  dock. 

The  Arctic  ordinarily  took  fifteen  days  to  make  the 
voyage  to  Liverpool,  and  Mr.  Cortlandt  to\d  Ann  that 
at  least  as  much  time  again  must  be  allowed  before 
letters  from  the  travelers  could  be  expected,  but  the 
child  was  impatient  to  hear,  nevertheless.  She  often 
interrupted  her  dreary  morning  lessons  with  questions 
about  London  and  Paris,  those  towns  soon  to  be 
sublimated  by  her  pretty  mother's  presence,  and  was 
reproved  for  it.  It  made  no  difference,  however,  as 
a  report  of  the  affair  to  her  guardian  resulted  in  his 
bringing  out  delightful  books  of  pictures  of  the  places 
the  travelers  would  shortly  see: — cities,  and  rivers, 
and  mountains.  She  felt  that  she  could  scarcely  bear 
it  to  wait  for  the  time  to  come  to  rejoin  them,  amid 
these  new  and  extraordinary  scenes. 

Her  mother  had  been  gone  only  a  fortnight,  when, 
one  snowy  afternoon,  Mr.  Cortlandt  returned  home 
earlier  than  was  his  custom.  Ann  knew  at  once,  as 
soon  as  she  had  run  to  meet  him,  that  something  ter- 
rible had  happened,  because  he  was  so  sorry  for 
her.  The  compassion  in  his  eyes  awakened  all  the 
bravery  in  her  soul.  The  worst  had  happened :  there 
had  been  a  collision  at  sea,  and  a  scattered  few  pas- 


32  THE  CORTLANDTS 

sengers,  picked  up  by  another  ship,  had  returned  to  tell 
the  tragic  tale  of  the  doomed  Arctic,  which  had  sunk 
off  the  banks,  while  only  two  days  out  from  New 
York.  For  a  time  Mr.  Cortlandt  refused  to  give  up 
hope,  and  every  day  he  went  to  the  offices  of  the 
Collins'  Line,  where  anxious  men  and  women 
clamored  for  assurance  that  their  friends  or  relatives 
were  among  the  few  picked  up;  but  as  time  went  on  he 
was  forced  to  abandon  any  expectation  of  the  rescue  of 
his  brother  and  his  bride. 

Back  in  America,  President  Pierce  then  cast  about 
among  his  supporters  for  another  minister  to  Switzer- 
land, and  in  Washington  Square  Mr.  Cortlandt  de- 
voted himself  to  comforting  a  passionately  rebellious 
child.  Her  sorrow,  he  knew,  would  pass,  and  for  him- 
self he  felt  a  curiously  poignant  regret  at  the  sudden 
end  of  his  lovely  and  foolish  young  sister-in-law, — 
a  deeper  regret,  possibly,  than  if  she  had  been  less 
lovely,  and  more  wise. 


CHAPTER  III 

TAKING  ROOT 

ANN  took  the  shock  of  her  mother's  death  in  a 
curiously  adult  fashion  that  touched  Mr.  Cortlandt 
deeply.  She  defensively  fenced  off  discussion  of  her 
bereavement,  and  endeavored  to  carry  on  the  pleasant 
and  amusing  life  she  had  begun  with  him  before  the 
bad  news  came,  but  under  the  strain  of  this  pretense 
her  irregular  little  face  grew  white  and  drawn,  and 
her  eyes,  under  her  shock  of  red  hair,  became  entirely 
unchildlike  in  their  tragic  intensity.  Nothing  could 
have  bound  her  closer  to  the  old  man  than  this  reti- 
cence, for  he,  too,  found  grief  something  that  it  was 
impossible  to  chat  about,  and  he  said  to  himself  that 
under  strain  his  young  foundling  was  showing  breed- 
ing. He  was  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  her, 
however;  it  seemed  brutal  to  leave  her  alone  in  the 
big  Washington  Square  house;  she  had  a  trick  of  fol- 
lowing him  out  on  the  steps  when  he  left  for  his  office 
in  the  morning,  and  smiling  determinedly  at  him  as  he 
drove  away,  that  brought  a  lump  into  his  throat. 

Acting  on  his  suggestion,  Mrs.  William  Cortlandt 
made  an  effort  to  approach  the  girl.  She  was  willing 
enough  to  do  it,  for  her  heart  was  too  kind  not  to  re- 
spond to  the  appeal  of  a  lonely  child,  but  she  was  forced 
to  report  no  success. 

"She  absolutely  was  short  with  me,  Hendricks, — 

33 


34  THE  CORTLANDTS 

imagine  that!  I  could  get  nowhere  with  her,  even 
when  I  told  her  that  it  was  ungrateful  of  her  so  to 
ignore  your  wishes." 

Mr.  Cortlandt  sighed.  The  reticence  which  delighted 
him  in  Ann  he  often  found  sadly  lacking  in  his  sister- 
in-law.  He  took  up  the  matter  with  the  child,  how- 
ever. "Ann,"  he  said,  forcing  himself,  with  some  dif- 
ficulty, to  speak  directly  to  a  disagreeable  point,  "why 
were  you  so  stiff-necked  with  Mrs.  Cortlandt?  She 
meant  to  be  kind  to  you,  and  one  should  not  be  prig- 
gish with  those  who  mean  to  be  kind." 

Ann  shot  to  her  feet,  and  stood,  tense  and  erect, 
at  his  knee.  "I  know,"  she  said.  "I  was  horrid  to  her. 
.  .  .  I  couldn't  help  it.  ...  You  see — she 
hated  rny  mother — she  and  Mrs.  Renneslyer.  .  .  . 
So  I  can't  talk  to  them  about  her.  .  .  .  There's 
only  you.  .  .  .  You  and  Mrs.  Allen."  She  broke  off, 
and  the  old  man  could  see  that  she  was  struggling 
with  inconvenient  tears.  He  put  his  hand  on  hers, 
and  after  a  moment  she  went  on.  "I've  been  think- 
ing. .  .  .  Mrs.  Allen  is  used  to  me;  she  had  me 
with  her  almost  all  my  life,  you  see, — and  she  is  all 
alone,  like  me.  ...  I  could  be  a  help  to  her, 
some.  ...  I  know  she  would  take  me.  .  .  . 
I  am  almost  certain  she  would."  It  was  out  at  last, 
and  she  turned  swiftly  away  from  him,  so  that  Mr. 
Cortlandt  could  not  tell  if  she  were  crying  or  not. 

He  was  curiously  moved  himself.  There  was 
something  so  valiant  in  Ann's  abdication  that  he 
wanted  to  take  her  in  his  unaccustomed  arms,  and  bid 


TAKING  ROOT  35 

her  defy  the  world.  He  looked  at  her  slim  back 
and  her  stiffly  held  head,  and  wondered  if  tears  were 
streaming  down  her  face.  Suddenly  he  was  ashamed 
of  the  half  formed  thoughts  he  had  harbored  as  to 
how  he  would  ever  succeed  in  unburdening  himself 
of  the  inheritance  of  his  brother's  stepchild.  He  had 
never  seen  Mrs.  Allen,  but  now  he  thought  of  her 
with  an  antagonism  that  amazed  him.  .  .  .  He 
wanted  Ann  himself!  All  at  once  this  realization  shot 
across  his  bewilderment,  simplifying  everything.  He 
wondered  how  he  could  ever  make  the  child  under- 
stand his  need  of  her.  .  .  .  Her  shoulders  moved 
convulsively,  and  at  once,  without  any  further  delib- 
eration, he  went  over  to  her.  "What  am  I  doing?" 
he  wondered,  as  he  went  He  put  his  hands  on  Ann's 
shoulders,  and  turned  her  to  him.  Yes,  she  was 
crying.  "Mrs.  Allen  can't  have  you !"  he  said  at  once, 
almost  roughly.  "I  want  you  myself." 

Ann  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  looked  up 
at  him  for  an  instant  "Why?"  she  said.  "Why  do 
you  want  me?"  She  strained  away  from  him,  repel- 
lent and  hard. 

All  at  once  hopelessness  swept  over  Mr.  Cortlandt 
"How  could  I  hope  to  win  a  child's  affection?"  he 
wondered.  Undoubtedly  she  preferred  Mrs.  Allen.  "I 
want  you  because  I've  come  to  care  for  you,  my 
child,"  he  said  heavily.  "I  am  quite  selfish  about  it." 
He  looked  steadily  down  at  her  lifted  face,  and  saw 
joy  transfigure  it,  in  a  flashing  glimpse,  before  she 
flung  herself  upon  him,  and  gave  way  to  an  outburst 


36  THE  CORTLANDTS 

of  sobs.  He  gathered  her  into  his  arms,  and  let  her 
cry  in  peace;  he  made  no  effort  to  stop  her,  he  only 
smoothed  her  rough  red  hair  with  a  clumsy  hand, 
and  once  he  pressed  his  lips  to  it,  shyly. 

After  that  there  was  no  question  of  Ann's  future: 
the  old  man  and  the  child  understood,  whatever  be- 
wilderment the  rest  of  the  family  might  have  about 
their  relationship.  Mr.  Cortlandt  frankly  abandoned 
himself  to  the  joy  he  felt  in  his  vicarious  parenthood. 
He  came  home  early  in  the  afternoons,  in  order  to 
teach  Ann  to  drive,  and  he  delighted  in  her  fearless- 
ness. It  was  not  easy  to  control  his  fast  pacer,  and  he 
was  proudly  conscious  that  people  on  Fifth  Avenue 
turned  in  amazement  to  look  after  the  child  with  the 
flying  red  hair  who  drove  a  shining  cutter  so  reck- 
lessly. It  was,  however,  in  the  long  winter  evenings, 
when  he  took  advantage  of  the  freedom  from  social 
engagements  which  his  mourning  gave  him  to  read 
aloud  to  Ann,  that  he  most  enjoyed  her.  They 
dipped  into  all  kinds  of  books;  he  found  this  experi- 
menting with  a  child's  imagination  to  be  a  pure  de- 
light, and  Ann  flowered  intellectually  under  so  stimu- 
lating a  companionship. 

The  first  time  they  went  to  Grace  Church  for  the 
Sunday  morning  service  the  child  was  the  recipient  of 
many  curious  glances  from  under  demure  bonnets. 
She  looked  extraneous  and  insignificant  in  the  big 
Cortlandt  pew,  and  was  possibly  aware  of  it,  for  when 
the  service  began  she  hunched  herself  nearer  its  other 
occupant,  where  she  might  lean  against  him  and  share 


TAKING  ROOT  37 

his  hymnal,  after  the  pleasant  Milton  Center  fashion 
where  books  were  few.  When  he  put  a  friendly  and 
protecting  arm  about  her  thin  shoulders  an  audible 
flutter  was  evident  behind  them,  and  Mr.  Cortlandt 
smiled,  briefly  and  sardonically.  He  wished,  that  first 
Sunday  morning,  that  Ann  had  been  endowed  with  her 
mother's  beauty,  so  that  a  mere  glance  at  her  would 
constitute  a  triumphant  answer  to  speculations  about 
her.  Across  the  aisle  he  could,  without  turning  his 
head,  see  his  niece  Fanny's  glossy  brown  curls,  scal- 
loped over  a  shell-pink  cheek,  and  catch  the  immovable 
line  of  her  docile  profile,  outlined  against  her  mother's 
sealskin  sack.  She  sat  very  still,  and  lifted  a  politely 
attentive  face,  while  Ann  made  no  attempt  to  achieve 
such  resignation.  Her  small  body  wriggled  continu- 
ously under  the  strain  of  the  long  service. 

Just  ahead  of  them  was  his  sister's  pew,  with  Mrs. 
Renneslyer, — very  lovely  in  black  cashmere  tempered 
by  an  ermine  cape, — sitting  straight  and  alert  at  one 
end,  and  her  husband,  red- faced  and  jovial-looking, 
slouched  down  in  his  corner  on  the  aisle.  Between 
them  was  their  son  Hendricks,  named  for  his  uncle, 
and  destined  from  his  cradle,  as  Mr.  Cortlandt  well 
knew,  to  be  his  heir  and  his  favorite.  With  Ann's 
lack  of  beauty  in  mind,  it  gave  him  some  satisfaction 
to  look  at  his  nephew,  for  young  Hendricks  at  thir- 
teen resembled  neither  his  beautiful  mother  nor  his 
dashing  father.  He  was  a  fat  child,  with  somnolent 
eyes,  and  lips  that  pouted,  as  he  endured  the  sermon. 
"Clarissa  shouldn't  throw  stones,"  her  brother  reflected. 


38  THE  CORTLANDTS 

When  they  came  out  on  the  steps,  they  found  a 
light  snow  falling.  The  thin  flakes  scurried  about  aim- 
lessly under  a  leaden  sky,  and  caught  in  the  carved  gray 
stone  of  the  doorway,  in  ridges  of  pure  white.  A 
great  many  sleighs  were  waiting  outside  the  fence; 
there  was  a  pleasant,  unchurchly  jingle  in  the  air,  as 
the  cold  horses  shook  themselves,  or  pranced  about, 
arching  their  necks  under  the  strings  of  bells  that 
circled  them.  Close  by  the  gate  was  an  especially 
fine  turnout,  opulent  with  buffalo  robes  and  white 
horsehair  plumes.  Its  spirited  horses  pawed  the  snow, 
and  switched  their  flowing  tails  nervously;  the 
coachman  who  held  the  reins  found  it  difficult  to  keep 
them  standing.  It  was  Mr.  Hendricks  Cortlandt's 
sleigh,  and  people  paused  to  watch  him  take  possession 
of  it 

He  turned  to  young  Hendricks,  who  stood  stiffly 
waiting  beside  his  mother.  "Like  to  ride  up  with  me  ?" 
he  asked  him.  It  was  a  long  established  custom  of  his, 
to  drive  his  nephew  home  from  church  on  Sunday. 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  boy  said,  relieved.  He  would  have 
climbed  into  the  back  seat,  had  his  uncle  not  restrained 
him. 

"In  front,  Hendricks,  if  you  please, — with  Tom. 
Ann  rides  with  me." 

With  a  quick  clean  spring  the  country  child  was 
established,  and  Mr.  Cortlandt  followed  her  with  a 
somewhat  malicious  smile.  As  he  tucked  the  fur  robe 
about  her  he  knew  that  with  so  simple  an  effort  he 
had  done  much  to  establish  Ann  as  his  favorite. 


TAKING  ROOT  39 

Behind  them  the  relations,  in  the  Theodore  Ren- 
neslyer's  smart  sleigh,  were  dismally  discussing  her. 
"We  are  fools  to  allow  it!"  Mrs.  Renneslyer  said 
angrily.  "If  the  girl  had  looks  I  declare  I  should  be 
convinced  of  the  necessity  of  our  taking  steps!" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Mrs.  William,  "but  what  steps, 
Clarissa?"  And  for  once  her  sister-in-law  had  no 
answer  ready. 

"I  like  her,"  Fanny  volunteered  from  the  front  seat, 
where  she  sat  perched  on  Mr.  Renneslyer' s  knees.  "She 
makes  up  stories,  and  we  play  them,  like  actors!" 
Her  starry  eyes  shone  at  some  childish  recollection. 

"Does  Fanny  see  much  of  her?" 

"More  than  I  like,  but  Hendricks  insists  on  it." 
Mrs.  William  leaned  closer  to  her  elegant  sister-in- 
law,  and  lowered  her  tone  so  that  the  child  might  not 
hear.  "Ann  is  very  undisciplined, — a  shocking  ex- 
ample,— and  she  is  a  great  reader,  too." 

"A  dangerous  trait  in  a  woman !" 

"Yes,  and  Hendricks  allows  her  to  take  any  book 
she  likes  from  his  shelves.  Yesterday  I  found  her 
deep  in  Jane  Eyre!"  Mrs.  Cortlandt  shuddered,  but 
not  from  the  cold. 

"Heaven  knows  what  ideas  the  girl  has  in  her  head !" 
Mrs.  Renneslyer  said,  tossing  hers  scornfully. 

Her  husband  swung  around,  to  join  in  the  conversa- 
tion. "She's  not  so  bad  as  you  women  make  out," 
he  expostulated.  "She's  got  spirit,  by  gad.  No  wonder 
Hendricks  likes  that !  And  I'm  not  so  sure,  Clarissa, 
that  you  are  right  about  her  looks.  Those  queer  big 


40  THE  CORTLANDTS 

eyes  of  hers!  Give  her  time  to  grow  up  to  'em,  and 
then  see!" 

The  ladies  laughed,  for  here  they  were  on  sure 
ground.  "Don't  be  more  ridiculous  than  you  can  help, 
Theo,"  his  wife  said  briefly.  "You  are  getting  to 
be  a  silly  old  man; — you  see  beauty  in  anything  femi- 
nine!" ' 

Even  Fanny  tossed  her  meek  head.  "Ann  pretty?" 
she  echoed.  "Oh,  Uncle  Theo,  what  an  idea!" 

"You'll  have  to  find  some  better  reason  than  that 
for  Hendricks'  infatuation." 

"Well,  by  gad,  she's  fond  of  the  old  boy,  you  know. 
.  .  .  I  sometimes  think  that  she  is  the  only  one 
of  the  lot  of  us  who  is." 

"Why,  Theodore,  we  all  adore  him!"  Mrs.  Cort- 
landt  cried,  scandalized. 

"We  all  revere  him,  you  mean.  ...  I  suppose, 
really,  Hendricks  is  a  human  being,  underneath  all 
his  formality." 

"Nonsense,  Theo!" 

"You  see?  Ann  thinks  he  is,  I  have  no  doubt,  and 
I'll  take  odds  he  likes  it." 

The  women  looked  at  each  other  uncomfortably; 
there  was  more  in  this  conjecture  of  Theodore  Ren- 
neslyer  than  they  liked  to  admit. 

When  Hendricks  came  home  for  dinner  he  con- 
fided to  his  mother  that  Mr.  Cortlandt  expected  Ann 
to  call  him  uncle.  "Just  like  Fanny  and  me,"  he 
added  arrogantly.  "Some  day  he'll  be  sorry,  you'll 
see." 


TAKING  ROOT  41 

"Hendricks,"  she  said  crisply,  "it  is  much  more 
likely  to  be  you  who  is  sorry." 

"Why?"   ' 

"A  child  in  that  house!  It  is  strange,  isn't  it,  to 
think  that  he  may  sacrifice  his  own  flesh  and  blood 
for  her?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  uncle  may  give  her  all  his 
money?" 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  shrank  from  this  crudity,  and  lifted 
a  languidly  protesting  hand.  "I  said  nothing  so 
definite.  I  only  meant  to  warn  you.  After  all,  your 
future  is  at  stake." 

"But  he  has  made  a  will, — I  heard  you  tell  father 
so  last  summer, — leaving  it  all  to  me." 

Hendricks'  mother  looked  at  him  sharply;  she  was 
beginning  to  find  his  smugness  irritating.  "There's  one 
thing  you  may  find  out,"  she  said  sharply,  "and  that 
is  that  there  is  many  a  slip  between  a  will  and  a 
codicil."  She  felt  more  cheerful  after  having  thus 
plunged  her  son  into  bewilderment;  as  she  went  up- 
stairs to  lay  aside  her  dolman,  she  was  unreasonably 
relieved.  After  all,  she  told  herself,  family  was  the 
thing  that  counted  with  her  brother;  she  was  certain 
that  he  would  never  seriously  consider  supplanting  his 
nephew  with  a  common  child  of  a  nobody. 

After  supper  in  Washington  Square,  when  Mr. 
Cortlandt  would  have  settled  down  to  his  book,  Ann 
stood  stubbornly  before  him.  He  looked  up,  ironically 
inquiring. 


42  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Why  don't  those  people  like  me?"  she  demanded 
'defensively. 

"What  people?" 

"Oh, — those  Renneslyers, — that  fat  boy  and  his 
mother, — and  Fanny's  mother,  too." 

"Possibly  they  think  that  I  am  growing  too  fond 
of  you." 

Ann  shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  Mr.  Cortlandt:  no, 
he  was  not  smiling.  "If  that  is  the  reason,  I  don't 
mind,"  she  declared  happily.  "I  don't  want  any  one  to 
like  me, — only  you!" 


CHAPTER  IV! 

ESCAPADES 

ANN  never  achieved  that  perfect  behavior  which 
she  felt  was  to  be  expected  of  her  guardian's  ward; 
she  was  always  in  scrapes  of  one  sort  or  another,  and 
yet  never  did  she  see  her  naughtiness  ahead  of  her; 
it  always  leapt  upon  her  in  the  dark,  as  it  were,  taking 
her  unawares,  and  defenseless. 

She  settled  down  to  work  with  her  governess  ani- 
mated by  a  firm  determination  to  make  the  best  of  it, 
for,  in  her  early  appreciation  of  Mr.  Cortlandt's  kind- 
ness, she  felt  that  it  was  almost  happiness  to  submit, 
for  his  sake,  to  something  which  she  found  so  unpleas- 
ant. When  Fanny  Cortlandt  was  added  to  the  class, 
she  was  half  sorry,  as  her  pleasure  in  the  other  child's 
society  took  the  edge  off  the  sacrifice  she  made  her 
gnardian.  She  hated  her  governess  with  a  passion 
which  absorbed  her;  at  all  her  ideas  of  polite  behavior 
she  turned  up  a  nose  that  nature  had  equipped  all  too 
well  for  that  gesture,  and  she  tormented  the  unfortu- 
nate young  woman  into  a  nagging  which  very  nearly 
drove  them  both  distracted.  Nevertheless,  she  quickly 
learned  all  that  this  first  incumbent  had  to  teach  her, 
and  was  enormously  bored  at  being  forced  to  listen  to 
Fanny's  instruction  on  points  which  she  had  already 
mastered. 

43 


44  THE  CORTLANDTS 

It  was  on  a  day  when  the  spring  call  was  sounding 
clearly  in  the  trembling  air,  that  Ann  first  disgraced 
herself.  Fanny  was  struggling  with  the  tables  of  eight. 
There  was  a  robin  on  the  railing  outside  the  window, 
and  the  discouraged  instructress  was  droning  on  "six- 
teen— twenty-four — thirty-two."  Ann  felt  that  she 
could  not  endure  it  another  moment. 

"I  want,"  she  said,  "to  get  a  drink  of  wrater." 

The  governess  was  a  Christian  young  woman,  and 
she  looked  up  at  the  uneasy  child  with  resigned  de- 
spair. "Very  well,"  she  said,  and  continued,  "forty — 
forty-eight." 

Out  in  the  hall  the  door  was  opened  wide,  and  a 
great  gust  of  soft  air  was  blowing  through  the  house. 
Ann  instinctively  turned  toward  it;  she  had  no  plan 
as  she  poked  her  head  out  the  door,  and  almost  no 
plan  as  she  ran  down  the  Square,  hatless  and  suddenly 
mad.  She  did  not  pause  until  she  reached  Broadway ; 
there,  lost  in  the  crowd,  she  felt  safe  from  pursuit. 
"Eight — sixteen — thirty-two!"  she  said  aloud,  de- 
risively. She  wanted  to  fling  her  arms  about,  and 
shout.  Instead  she  paused,  and  gaped  at  a  jeweler's 
window,  which  was  resplendent  with  sets  of  coral, 
and  cameos  set  in  pearls.  Why  did  grown  people  want 
things  like  that?  Ann  wondered,  and  then  she  remem- 
bered her  mother's  delight  in  the  jewels  her  affluent 
new  husband  had  given  her,  and  understood.  .  .  . 
She  wished  that  she  had  something  of  her  mother's  to 
keep.  .  .  .  She  wondered  if  all  her  pretty  things  had 
sunk  quite  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  .  .  .  De- 


ESCAPADES  45 

fensively,  she  flung  away  from  the  window:  this  was 
no  way  to  enjoy  her  freedom ! 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  heard  a  man  say,  as  he  passed  with 
a  companion.  "Trinity  spire  is  the  highest  point  in 
New  York!  Beautiful  view  from  there." 

Immediately  she  knew  what  she  wanted,  and  she 
started  off  down  Broadway,  undeterred  by  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  miles  which  stretched  between  her  goal 
and  her.  She  was  a  weary  child  when  she  at  length 
arrived  where  the  church  shepherded  its  clustering 
gravestones-  far  away  down-town,  but  it  had  never 
occurred  to  her  to  give  up  her  quest  The  stairs  seemed 
very  long  and  steep  as  she  toiled  up  them,  but  once 
at  the  top,  she  exulted  over  the  wide  panorama.  She 
strained  her  young  eyes  to  follow,  hi  the  slate-gray 
sea,  the  course  of  a  ship  that  was  going,  as  her 
mother's  ship  had  gone,  out  into  the  unknown;  she 
longed  to  be  aboard  it,  or  in  one  of  the  small  sailing 
craft  that  skimmed  about  below  her,  in  the  ruffled  lead 
color  of  the  river.  The  city,  too,  was  full  of  interest; 
there  were  countless  places  which  she  had  not  yet 
seen.  The  tiny  square  patches  of  budding  green  in  the 
wilderness  of  houses  meant  parks  whose  existence  she 
had  not  even  guessed;  the  avenues  that  cut  narrow 
swathes  through  the  city  led  to  enchanted  goals  for 
future  expeditions.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  ran  curiously 
over  the  miles  of  monotonous  flat  tops  of  houses, 
broken,  here  and  there,  by  the  spire  of  a  church,  thrust 
up  like  a  spear  above  all  else.  ...  It  rested  her, 
to  hang  on  the  railing,  and  speculate  about  the  un- 


46  THE  CORTLANDTS 

known  in  that  way;  a  delightful  interest  in  other  peo- 
ple's lives  awoke  in  her,  and  beguiled  her  so  that  she 
forgot  to  be  apprehensive  about  her  reception  in  Wash- 
ington Square,  when  she  should,  at  last,  return. 

In  after  years  she  never  could  remember  just  how 
she  managed  to  get  home  again,  but  she  knew  that 
Mr.  Cortlandt  had  forgiven  her,  and  that,  after  a 
frank  statement  of  her  hopeless  boredom  during  les- 
sons, he  had  replaced  the  Christian  young  lady  by  an 
earnest  German  instructress,  who  undertook  the  tam- 
ing of  Ann  with  a  sort  of  holy  fervor,  and  who  for 
years  adored  and  tyrannized  over  her  in  an  ecstasy 
of  sentimentality. 

Fanny  and  Ann  speedily  became  intimate ;  they  were 
thrown  together  from  the  beginning,  and  they  com- 
plemented each  other  in  a  way  that  was  a  delight  to 
both  of  them.  Fanny  was  a  timid  child,  inclined  to 
an  unadventurous  life  which  proved  monotonous,  even 
to  the  docile  girl  herself,  while  Ann  was  always  a 
rebel,  only  too  willing  to  lead  her  protesting  friend  into 
exciting  paths  she  never  would  have  explored  by  her- 
self. During  the  first  six  months  of  Ann's  stay,  Fanny 
was  in  trouble  oftener  than  she  had  been  in  all  her 
life  before,  but  the  more  ingenious  child  fascinated  her, 
and  she  looked  at  her  with  adoring  eyes.  As  for  Ann, 
she  loved  Fanny  dearly,  and  that  was  all  there  was 
about  that ;  her  reason  was  not  in  the  least  concerned  in 
the  matter. 

She  never  could  manage  to  get  on  with  young  Hen- 
dricks  Renneslyer,  although,  at  her  guardian's  request, 


ESCAPADES  47 

she  made  sporadic  efforts  to  establish  pleasant  rela- 
tions. He  did  not  like  her,  and  she  knew  it.  He 
hated  anything  conspicuous  or  unconventional,  and  he 
complained  that  his  uncle's  protegee  was  both,  as, 
indeed,  it  must  be  admitted  that  she  sometimes  took 
pains  to  be,  in  his  reproving  presence.  Now  and  then, 
in  the  winters  of  her  childhood,  he  took  her  skating 
in  the  new  Central  Park,  but  Ann  knew  that  it  was 
only  because  his  mother  had  insisted  that  he  should, 
and  she  always  wondered  why  this  special  favor 
should  be  shown  her  by  the  coldly  beautiful  Mrs.  Ren- 
neslyer.  She  could  skate  very  well  indeed;  even  be- 
fore she  left  Milton  Center  she  could  cut  her  initials 
on  the  ice,  and  there  were  always  plenty  of  people 
who  watched  her  on  the  park  lake.  She  was  vastly 
Hendricks'  superior,  and  she  took  a  malicious  pleasure 
in  cutting  figures  around  him.  He  was  a  heavy 
pompous  boy  in  his  early  adolescence,  and  he  treated 
Ann  as  though  she  were  a  mere  infant;  she  grinned 
to  herself,  in  her  increasing  maturity,  as  she  recalled 
his  clumsy  rushes  after  her,  and  his  impotent  protests 
at  the  ridiculous  position  she  put  him  in.  She  knew 
that  he  greatly  preferred  his  cousin  Fanny  to  her,  but 
she  did  not  object  to  that;  what  she  could  not  endure 
was  her  friend's  adoration  of  him. 

It  was  not  until  the  autumn  Hendricks  went  away 
to  Harvard  College  that  his  smoldering  resentment 
flared  into  open  dislike.  New  York  City  was  at  that 
time  in  the  throes  of  religious  excitement,  and  Ann 
was  on  fire  with  desire  to  go  to  the  mushroom  prayer- 


48  THE  CORTLANDTS 

meetings,  which  had  sprung  up  in  various  quarters  of 
the  town,  and  where  great  crowds  of  people  gathered 
daily  to  hear  Whitfield's  ardent  exhortations.  She 
began  to  think  about  her  soul  in  those  days,  and  one 
afternoon  her  guardian  came  home  to  find  her  crouch- 
ing over  a  leaping  fire,  with  fascinated  eyes  fixed  on 
the  blaze. 

"What  are  you  doing  there,  my  dear?"  he  asked. 

Ann  answered  solemnly,  "Thinking  about  hell-fire, 
uncle." 

He  laughed,  but  he  would  not  be  cajoled  into  taking 
her  to  hear  the  revivalist.  "I  couldn't  think  of  such  a 
thing,  Ann,  I  am  too  old  to  expose  myself  to  anything 
so  upsetting.  And  you  can  not  go  alone  with  Frau- 
lein  in  that  excited  crowd,  mind  that.  You'll  have  to 
take  young  Hendricks  along,  if  you  must  go." 

The  boy  protested  hotly. 

"Why  can't  you  go  to  a  regular  church?"  he  de- 
manded. "Those  prayer-meetings;  a  lot  of  common 
people  all  singing  and  shouting!  Grace  Church  is 
good  enough  for  me." 

He  found  the  revivals  even  worse  than  he  had 
feared.  He  hated  the  crude  emotion  of  them,  and 
shrank  from  the  uncontrolled  ecstasy  of  conversion 
and  repentance,  while  Ann,  on  the  contrary,  thrilled 
to  the  dramatic  exaltation  about  her.  He  twitched 
her  coat  nervously  when  she  lifted  her  clear  voice  in 
the  hymns;  it  rang  out  pure  and  sweet;  she  liked  to 
hear  it,  and  to  be  a  part  of  the  great  moved  audience. 


ESCAPADES  49 

It  made  no  difference  to  her  if  people  turned  to  stare 
at  her. 

She  was  immensely  interested  in  the  personal 
prayers  offered  by  members  of  the  congregation.  The 
intrepid  person  thus  inspired  wrote  his  plea  upon  a 
piece  of  paper,  folded  it,  handed  it  to  an  usher,  and 
at  a  later  period  in  the  service  had  the  hectic  pleasure 
of  hearing  his  words  read  out  before  all  the  crowd. 
Ann  longed  to  ask  a  boon,  and  searched  her  brain 
for  days  for  something  she  might  demand,  but  it  was 
not  until  she  came  very  near  the  turning,  on  this  road 
to  salvation,  that  she  hit  on  her  appeal.  Standing 
well  away  from  young  Hendricks,  she  managed,  be- 
fore he  could  stop  her,  to  slip  into  the  hand  of  an 
usher  a  piece  of  paper  upon  which  was  written,  in  a 
round  schoolgirl's  hand,  "Prayers  are  earnestly  re- 
quested for  a  boy  who  thinks  himself  as  good  as 
God." 

A  few  moments  later,  when  this  was  read  out  by 
the  trusting  minister  of  the  gospel,  Ann  was  unable 
to  suppress  the  pride  of  authorship,  and  turned,  in 
a  flutter  of  excitement,  to  the  stolid  youth  beside  her. 

"It's  you,  Hendricks,"  she  cried,  "it's  you!"  And 
thus  effectively  demolished  any  chance  of  the  young 
man's  conversion. 

It  was  after  this  that  Mr.  Cortlandt  had  laid  a  ban 
on  further  attendance  at  the  prayer-meetings,  and 
young  Hendricks  shortly  after  went  away  to  college. 
It  seemed  to  Ann  entirely  unreasonable  that  the  boy 


'50  THE  CORTLANDTS 

and  his  mother  should  resent  her  prayer,  and  look  on 
it  as  a  sinister  attack,  but  somehow,  without  being  told, 
she  was  certain  that  they  did. 

The  one  sure  thing  she  could  anchor  all  her  mem- 
ories to,  was  the  indelible  fact  of  her  guardian's  affec- 
tion for  her,  and  as  she  grew  older  she  developed  a 
keen  desire  to  reward  him  for  it.  It  was  mainly  for  his 
sake  that  she  wished  to  be  pretty.  She  was,  she  sup- 
posed, clever,  enough ;  at  any  rate,  the  aunts  referred 
to  her  scornfully  as  a  blue  stocking,  and  at  fifteen  she 
was  often  aware  of  knowing  more  about  her  lessons 
than  Fraulein  did,  while  the  musical  young  lady  who 
taught  her  the  piano  assured  her  that  in  spite  of  her 
slapdash  method  she  was  better  at  her  pieces  than 
painstaking  Fanny.  Every  one  knew  that  she  could 
ride  any  horse,  however  wild,  and  swim  through  the 
heavy  surf  at  Newport,  but  all  these  advantages 
weighed  as  nothing  in  the  balance  against  her  lack  of 
good  looks.  She  hated  her  slender  height,  and  her 
impudent  nose,  and  her  too  thin  arms. 

It  is  true  that  sometimes,  when  she  looked  in  the 
tall  mirror  over  her  bureau,  it  seemed  to  her  that  her 
face  was  somehow  growing  up  to  her  eyes,  and  that 
her  red  lips  were  less  incongruous  in  the  warm  white 
of  her  face,  but  as  her  ideal  was  at  that  time  a  plump, 
pink  and  white  young  lady  with  glossy  black  ringlets, 
like  Qara  Louise  Kellogg's  in  Rigoletto,  she  was  un- 
aware of  any  growing  beauty.  Moreover,  her  mother's 
adverse  judgment  of  her  clung, — that  mother  whom 
she  tenderly  recalled  as  a  miracle  of  prettiness,  and  in 


ESCAPADES  51 

addition  to  this,  the  stigma  upon  red  hair  had  not 
then  been  removed,  and  Mrs.  William's  estimate  of  her 
flaming  mane  reached  her  through  Fanny. 

"It  is  such  a  pity,"  that  brown-toned  young  woman 
said,  "that  it  does  not  grow  darker.  Mama  says  you 
will  never  get  you  a  husband  on  account  of  it." 

Ann  tossed  her  despised  head.  "La !"  she  exclaimed. 
"Who  cares?"  Her  voice,  however,  was  dispirited.  At 
fifteen  she  had  known  no  men,  and  as  for  the  boys  she 
met  at  occasional  children's  parties, — she  resented  their 
sleek  good  manners  almost  as  much  as  they  did  her 
tomboy  ways,  and  Fanny,  who  danced  but  passably 
well,  had  more  partners  than  light-footed  Ann. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  she  grew  rebellious  at 
being  considered  a  child.  She  had  not  dropped,  with 
other  childish  ways,  her  early  habit  of  pretending,  but 
gradually  her  dreams  had  altered  their  character.  She 
was  no  longer  a  wild  red  Indian, — a  dashing  sailor,— 
a  swashbuckling  soldier.  Furtively,  persuasively,  a 
change  had  come,  and  she  enrolled  herself  as  a  lovely 
princess;  ...  a  second  Helen  of  Troy;  .  .  . 
a  much  sought  belle  and  beauty.  She  lived  each  book 
she  read,  as  heroine,  and  often  shed  secret  tears  over 
the  tragic  plights  to  which  she  reduced  herself.  If 
any  one  had  called  her  romantic  she  would  have  denied 
it  with  an  indignation  that  would  have  been  largely 
protective,  but  as  a  result  of  the  richness  of  her  inner 
Jife  she  longed  for  wider  emotional  horizons.  She 
and  Fanny  talked  much  of  coming  out  into  gay  New 
York  society,  and  she  speculated  a  great  deal  about 


£2  THE  CORTLANDTS 

the  dinner  parties  and  evening  receptions  her  guardian 
so  often  disappeared  to  enjoy;  it  was  quite  in  vain 
that  he  told  her  she  missed  very  little;  she  continued 
to  watch  his  departures  with  wistful  eyes. 

Her  immaturity  did  not  become  unbearable  to  her, 
however,  until  the  Japanese  Embassy  visited  New 
York.  Those  first  diplomats  from  mysterious  lands 
across  the  wide  Pacific  were  objects  of  general  curios- 
ity; the  newspapers  heralded  them,  and  people  flocked 
to  see  them.  Ann  plagued  Mr.  Cortlandt  with  ques- 
tions about  them. 

"Are  they  really  so  small?"  she  demanded.  "And 
have  they  slit  eyes,  like  the  Japanese  doll  you  gave 
me  when  I  first  came  ?  Do  they  actually  wear  dresses, 
like  women?  Are  they  yellow?  How  yellow?  Are 
they  interesting?" 

Her  guardian  laughed.  "They  are  not,"  he  declared. 
"They  smile  and  say  nothing,  and  I  smile,  and  say 
nothing,  and  it  is  all  a  great  bore." 

"But  Joseph  says  you  are  going  to  entertain  them ; 
—you  are  to  give  them  a  reception !" 

He  sighed.  "Unfortunately,  I  am.  .  .  .  Some 
one  had  to  do  it,  and  four  of  us  drew  lots  for  it,  at  the 
Century  Club.  I  lost." 

"You  won,  you  mean !" 

She  ran  to  tell  Fanny  the  great  news,  and  amazed 
that  good  child  by  declaring-  her  intention  of  going 
down-stairs  to  mingle  with  the  guests. 

"You  can't  do  that,  Ann.  Uncle  would  never  allow! 
such  a  thing,  at  your  age!" 


ESCAPADES  53 

"Wait  and  see,"  Ann  boasted.     "I  am  sure  he  will 
want  us  to  be  there." 

He  did  not,  however,  as  the  ladies  of  his  family 
were  united  on  the  impropriety  of  such  conduct,  and 
Ann  was  forced  to  confine  her  observations  of  the 
swarthy  men  in  their  gorgeous  Eastern  clothes  to  such 
glimpses  as  she  could  snatch  when  hanging  over  the 
stair  rail,  in  a  rage  of  curiosity  and  disappointment. 
Looking  down,  her  eyes  lighted  on  the  top  of  Mr. 
William  Cullen  Bryant's  head;  it  was  unmistakable; 
no  one's  else  was  so  massive  and  so  bald,  nor  had  such 
a  bush  of  grizzled  hair  flowing  over  the  coat  collar 
behind,  almost  as  long  as  the  great  gray  beard  in 
front.  Ann  knew  him  well,  for  he  was  often  at  her 
guardian's  house ;  she  liked  him  both  because  he  some- 
times read  his  poems  aloud,  so  beautifully  that  they 
sounded  like  music,  and  because  he  walked  back  and 
forth  to  his  newspaper  office  in  all  sorts  of  weather. 
She  had  little  use  for  indoor  people,  and  when  it  rained 
she  liked  to  think  of  the  hearty  old  man,  with  his  head 
bent  to  the  storm;  she  had  a  feeling  of  kinship  to 
him.  She  made  a  curious  sibilant  noise  against  her 
teeth,  and  the  poet  looked  up  quickly,  and  laughed. 
He  was  carrying  in  one  hand  a  plate  of  escalloped 
oysters,  and  in  the  other  a  bright  red  apple. 

"May  I  come  up?"  he  called  softly. 

"Oh,  do!"  Ann  whispered  back,  undeterred  by 
Fanny's  aghast  plucking  at  her  skirts.  She  made  no 
false  apologies  at  accepting  the  oysters  he  offered 
her.  The  apple  he  reserved  for  himself. 


54  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"I  was  intending  the  oysters  for  a  somewnat  more 
mature  lady,"  Mr.  Bryant  said,  "but  if  she  knew  their 
fate,  she  would  not,  I  am  sure,  regret  them." 

Ann  lifted  a  skeptical  face.  "Hum,"  she  said, 
"better  not  tell  her,  though.  .  .  .  Have  one, 
Fanny, — they're  good." 

Their  benefactor  laughed,  and  set  his  apple  down 
on  the  step  beside  Ann.  "I'll  go  fetch  some  more,"  he 
offered,  "and  we  children  will  all  have  supper  to- 
gether." 

"Well,"  commented  Ann  dryly,   "if  you  want  to 
play  that  you're  a  child,  this  is  the  place  to  come. 
.     .     .     Don't  you  think  it's  mean  ?" 
"Mean?" 

"Yes, — not  to  let  us  go  down  there,  and  meet 
those  Japanese?  I've  never  seen  one,  near  to, — and 
Japan  is  a  long  way  off." 

Mr.  Bryant  laughed  again,  in  an  incomprehensible, 
mature  fashion,  and  sauntered  off  down-stairs. 
.  .  .  Ann  finished  her  oysters ;  shared  with  Fanny, 
there  were  not  very  many.  .  .  .  She  looked  over 
the  rail  again,  but  this  time  the  hall  was  empty.  "Can't 
see  a  thing,"  she  complained.  Her  bitter  look  fell 
on  the  poet's  frugal  supper.  "Aren't  grown  peo- 
ple queer?"  she  demanded.  "An  apple!"  She  held  it 
up  scornfully.  "And  he  can  have  anything  he  wants! 
It's  an  awful  waste !" 

She  looked  up  to  see  Mr.  Bryant  returning,  laden 
with  more  plates  of  escalloped  oysters.  Behind  him 
was  a  diminutive  young  man,  in  a  saffron  robe  em- 


ESCAPADES  '55 

broidered  in  rose  color,  carrying  ice-cream.  The  chil- 
dren scrambled  to  their  feet;  they  were  tongue-tied 
with  shyness;  for  once  even  Ann  had  nothing  at  all 
to  say,  but  it  became  evident  that  it  was  just  as  well, 
as  the  stranger  made  no  effort  to  speak,  either.  He 
bobbed  his  shorn  black  head,  and  smiled,  and  they  did 
the  same,  and  presently  the  four  of  them  were  seated 
on  the  stairs,  Mr.  Bryant  munching  his  apple,  while 
the  young  people  devoured  ice-cream  and  sponge  cake. 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  unable  to  tell  them  so, 
the  girls  divined  that  this  was  the  Oriental's  first 
introduction  to  these  delicacies,  and  they  beamed  sym- 
pathetically upon  him,  unaware  that  Mr.  Bryant  looked 
at  them  with  much  the  same  kindly  expression,  as  he 
turned  their  defeat  into  a  triumph. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ROYALTY 

IT  WAS  in  the  autumn  following  Ann's  sixteenth 
birthday  that  the  Prince  of  Wales  made  his  historic 
visit  to  America.  He  was,  at  that  time,  unquestion- 
ably the  most  romantic  figure  in  the  world,  and  the 
tremendous  affair  of  his  crossing  the  Atlantic  Ocean 
was  made  much  of.  His  stay  in  Canada,  his  happy 
and  gracious  responses  to  official  greetings,  his  delight- 
ful enthusiasm  and  delicious  naivete,  were  all  recorded 
at  great  length  in  the  New  York  newspapers,  and 
wood-cuts  of  his  candid  and  temperamental  young 
face  were  to  be  found  looking  out  of  every  magazine. 
When  it  was  finally  announced  that  he  was  actually 
coming  to  visit  the  United  States,  and  would  spend  a 
few  days  in  New  York,  the  excitement  among  fashion- 
able people  ran  high,  and  the  plans  made  for  his  enter- 
tainment were  of  a  more  metropolitan  order  than  ever 
attempted  before.  There  was  to  be  a  parade,  a  public 
ball  was  to  be  given  for  him  at  the  Academy  of  Music, 
and  a  dinner  and  reception  were  arranged  for  at  the 
Brevoort  Hotel.  This  plan  left  but  one  evening  free, 
and  after  some  discussion  it  was  decided  that  Mr. 
Cortlandt,  who  was  chairman  of  the  committee  in 
charge  of  the  prince's  visit,  should  entertain  him  at  a 
private  banquet.  Ann  was  in  a  great  state  of  excite- 
ment at  the  prospect  of  having  the  prince  at  dinner. 

56 


ROYALTY  57 

"We  shall  both  fall  in  love  with  him!"  she  told 
Fanny  ecstatically. 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  Fanny,  "mama  says  I  may 
make  my  debut  at  the  ball.  She  is  getting  me  a  pink 
tarlatan  dress  for  it." 

"Then  I  shall  go,  too!  I  shall  ask  your  mother  to 
order  me  a  dress  like  yours." 

When  she  did  so,  Mrs.  William  looked  at  her  in 
ruffled  amazement.  "Ball?"  she  echoed,  "at  sixteen? 
Stuff  and  nonsense !" 

"But  Fanny  is  going." 

"Fanny  is  seventeen: — and  at  any  rate,  miss,  it  is 
high  time  you  learned  that  there  are  some  things  Fanny 
should  have,  and  you  shouldn't." 

The  girl  took  this  blow  in  silence.  She  was  staggered 
by  Mrs.  William's  belief  that  her  daughter,  as  a 
bona-fide  member  of  the  illustrious  Cortlandt  family, 
had  a  divine  right  to  certain  privileges  denied  to  Ann 
Byrne,  once  of  Milton  Center.  It  seemed  fair  enough, 
however,  when  she  considered  it  dispassionately,  and 
this  realization  threw  her  into  a  panic.  If  her  guardian 
agreed  with  his  sister-in-law,  she  didn't  want  to  know 
it;  she  wished  to  live  in  her  fool's  paradise  as  long 
as  she  could,  and  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  mention 
the  ball  to  him,  although  she  cherished  a  secret  hope 
that  he  might  issue  an  ultimatum  to  the  effect  that 
she  was  to  go.  He  did  not  speak,  however,  and  on  the 
great  night  she  even  brought  herself,  in  her  new  humil- 
ity, to  watch  the  affair  of  Fanny's  dressing. 

The  pale  rose  tarlatan  gown  was  charming,  with  its 


•58  THE  CORTLANDTS 

wide  ruffles  caught,  here  and  there,  by  tiny  bunches 
of  rose-buds;  the  debutante  looked  very  pretty  as  she 
stood  tremulously  awaiting  her  shawling.  Her  sleek 
brown  hair  was  circled  by  a  flat  wreath  of  shining 
green  leaves,  and  a  little  round  bouquet  trembled  in 
her  gloved  hands. 

"It  is  too  bad,  Ann,"  she  murmured  compunctiously, 
as  her  mother  hurried  her  off  to  the  coach  which 
waited,  like  Cinderella's,  to  bear  her  to  the  prince's 
ball. 

Ann  cried  a  little  before  she  went  to  sleep  that 
night,  for  she  felt  herself  an  outcast,  and  she  awakened 
very  early,  to  hear  the  home-coming  carriages  roll 
through  the  Square.  She  crept  to  the  window  and 
looked  out ;  the  night  was  drearily  breaking  into  morn- 
ing; it  was  the  first  dawn.  She  wondered  what  the 
prince  was  like.  ...  It  was  small  consolation  to 
know  that  Fanny  would  probably  only  have  bowed  be- 
fore young  Albert  Edward;  Ann  had  dreamed  of 
floating  about  the  ballroom  in  his  arms,  their  steps 
matched  in  the  elegant  polka,  and  she  felt  that,  could 
she  have  been  there,  in  some  miraculous  way  endowed 
with  beauty  and  with  charm,  she  would  have  achieved 
it.  It  was  her  imagination's  heights  that  she  missed, 
not  Fanny's  poor  successes. 

It  was  on  the  following  evening  that  the  prince  was 
to  dine  with  Mr.  Cortlandt,  and  Ann  came  down  to 
breakfast  determined  to  carry  her  disappointment 
through  magnificently.  Unfortunately,  early  as  she 


ROYALTY  59 

was,  Mrs.  Cortlandt  was  before  her :  it  was  incredible 
that  the  woman,  after  spending  the  night  ranged 
against  a  chilly  wall,  watching,  with  anxious  eyes,  for 
Fanny's  partners,  could  be  up  and  out  in  time  to  come 
bustling  into  her  brother-in-law's  sunny  breakfast 
room,  full  of  plans  for  the  evening's  entertainment. 
She  had  already  interviewed  the  cook,  and  when  Ann 
came  in  she  was  saying,  "We  shall  have  oyster  stew, 
of  course,  Hendricks,  and  she  does  lobster  so  well 
that  I  decided  on  that,  but  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night, 
after  I  finally  got  home,  worrying  for  fear  we  should 
have  had  terrapin.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  we  made  a 
mistake  ?" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  smiled.  "No,"  he  said,  "he'll  get  all 
the  terrapin  he  can  eat  in  Baltimore  and  Washington. 
.  .  .  Good  morning,  my  dear.  You  are  as  late  as 
though  you  had  gone  to  the  ball." 

Ann  stooped  and  kissed  him.  "I  couldn't  seem  to 
go  to  sleep,"  she  said  unsteadily. 

"You  might  as  well  have  spent  the  night  dancing. 
.  .  .  By  the  way,  why  didn't  you  go?  I  had  no 
idea  that  Fanny  would  be  there  until  I  saw  her.  You 
should  have  gone  with  her." 

Ann  flung  a  triumphant  glance  at  Mrs.  Cortlandt. 
"I  thought  you  didn't  want  me  to  go,"  she  murmured. 
She  was  tremulous  in  her  joy  at  being  reinstated. 

"Nonsense!  Don't  I  always  want  you?  How 
about  to-night?  You  are  coming  to  the  dinner,  of 
course?" 


60  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Hendricks,  don't  be  absurd!  A  child  like  Ann  at 
a  formal  dinner  party!  For  the  Prince  of  Wales! 
Why,  even  Fanny  isn't  to  be  here !" 

"Oh,  uncle,  may  I  come?" 

"Hendricks,  it  isn't  possible,  at  this  hour.  .  .  . 
The  table  is  full,  and  pulled  out  as  far  as  it  will  go. 
The  dining-room  won't  hold  any  more  people.  .  .  . 
Besides,  Ann  has  no  proper  dress." 

Mr.  Cortlandt  smiled  ruefully  at  his  ward.  "The 
Fates  seem  to  be  against  us,  my  child.  ...  I 
should  have  inquired;  it  was  careless  of  me,  but  I  don't 
understand  why  you  didn't  tell  me  if  you  wanted  to 
come.  It  could  have  been  quite  easily  arranged." 

Ann  smiled  mistily  at  him.  "Never  mind,"  she  said 
softly.  "So  long  as  you  want  me  to  be  there,  it's  all 
right."  She  escaped  from  the  breakfast  room  and 
the  details  of  the  dinner  as  soon  as  she  could,  however, 
for  Fanny's  mother's  triumph  over  her  was  more  than 
she  could  bear.  She  wished  that  she  might  go  away 
somewhere  until  everything  was  over,  and  the  prince 
had  gone.  A  lump  rose  in  her  throat  at  the  realiza- 
tion of  her  needless  disappointment,  and  she  flung  on 
her  hat  and  jacket,  determined  to  get  away  from  a 
house  dominated  by  Mrs.  Cortlandt. 

On  the  door-step  she  met  a  servant  in  livery.  He 
touched  his  ha^  antv  offered  her  the  note  he  carried. 
"From  Mrs.  Vanderdyken,"  he  said,  and  departed. 

Ann's  eyes  widened.  Mrs.  Vanderdyken,  she  knew, 
•was  expected  at  the  dinner,  and  she  guessed,  immedi- 


ROYALTY  61 

ately,  that  something  must  have  happened  to  prevent 
her  coming.  Into  her  mind  came  a  daring  idea,  and 
her  lips  pressed  together  firmly,  as  the  glorious  pos- 
sibilities of  it  developed.  Her  eyes  were  black  in  her 
white  face.  She  tore  open  the  note:  her  intuitions 
had  been  correct;  the  elegant  Mrs.  Vanderdyken  had 
sprained  an  ankle,  and  was  forced  to  send  her  regrets, 
at  this  late  hour.  Ann  hesitated  a  moment  longer  on 
the  door-step, — it  was  the  hesitation  of  one  who 
plans,  not  one  who  fears, — and  then  she  darted  away  in 
the  direction  of  the  little  house  in  Eleventh  Street, 
where  she  had,  the  night  before,  assisted  Fanny  Cort- 
landt  to  dress  for  the  ball.  People  turned  to  look  at 
her  as  she  sped  through  the  streets,  swift,  and  pos- 
sessed, and  absorbed. 

The  maid  who  answered  the  door  told  her  that  Miss 
Fanny  still  slept,  but  Ann  persisted.  "I'll  come  in," 
she  said,  and  she  smiled  radiantly  at  the  girl.  "I  won't 
wake  her.  I'll  just  go  up  and  wait." 

She  crept  up  the  narrow  stairs  along  the  wall,  hold- 
ing her  breath  when  now  and  then  they  creaked  under 
her  careful  feet  The  bedroom  door  was  shut,  and  a 
heavy  silence  lay  on  the  upper  floor ;  after  an  instant's 
pause,  Ann  turned  to  the  little  dressing-room  where 
Fanny  had  arrayed  herself.  The  finery  she  had  laid 
aside  after  the  ball  was  carelessly  bestowed  upon  the 
chairs  and  couch ;  it  lay  heaped  together, — the  pair  of 
prim  little  pink  slippers,  the  wreath  of  leaves  for  the 
hair,  the  long  silk  stockings,  the  faded  bouquet,  and, 


52  THE  CORTLANDTS 

collapsed  into  themselves  in  a  corner,  the  hoops  that 
had  distended  the  glory  of  the  festive  gown,  now 
hanging  limp,  without  its  crinoline,  across  a  chair. 

Ann  wasted  no  time  in  observation.  She  seized  the 
unwieldly  hoop-skirt  with  a  firm  but  feminine  hand, 
and  using  its  gaping  interior  as  a  carpet  bag,  she  hastily 
crammed  into  it  the  pink  tarlatan  dress,  the  little  pink 
slippers  and  the  stockings,  the  wreath  of  leaves  for 
the  hair,  and  the  fluffy  white  petticoats.  In  a  moment 
the  deed  was  done,  and  she  confronted  the  problem  of 
transporting  her  plunder  from  Eleventh  Street  to 
Washington  Square.  She  admitted  to  herself  that  the 
sight  of  a  great  girl  of  sixteen  bearing  a  naked  hoop- 
skirt  through  the  streets  of  New  York  was  not  to  be 
considered,  royalty  or  no  royalty. 

After  cautious  reconnoitering  she  ventured  out  into 
the  hall  with  her  unwieldy  bundle.  Then,  taking  her 
courage  in  both  hands,  she  stole  down  the  stairs,  hold- 
ing the  great  balloon  of  the  hoop  out  before  her,  and, 
noiselessly  opening  the  front  door,  she  succeeded  in 
pushing  the  unwilling  skirt  through  the  opening,  and 
the  vestibule  was  reached.  Eleventh  Street  lay  before 
her,  long  and  empty  and  observant;  Ann  felt  eyes 
lurking  behind  every  pair  of  prim  window  curtains, 
and  she  almost  lost  her  courage.  The  only  vehicle  in 
sight  was  a  fish  cart,  which  had  paused  before  the 
house  while  the  man  bargained  with  Mrs.  William's 
cook  at  the  rear  door  below.  Ann  leaned,  and  listened ; 
she  caught  sounds  of  a  conversation  that  promised  to 
be  lingering,  so  she  carefully  deposited  her  treacherous 


ROYALTY  63 

bundle  on  the  floor,  and  started  cautiously  down  the 
high  steps.  Immediately  behind  her  the  hoops  col- 
lapsed; a  pink  slipper  skimmed  past  her,  and  rico- 
chetted  to  the  curb.  Ann  pursued  it ;  she  stood  beside 
the  fish  cart  when  she  again  had  it  in  her  hand.  She 
cast  a  quick  but  innocent  glance  over  the  sleeping 
house-front,  and  then  she  lifted  the  cover  of  the  cart 
and  peered  within,  as  though  consumed  with  dutiful 
interest  in  her  aunt's  dinner.  The  box  was  very  nearly 
empty.  At  one  end  of  the  malodorous  space  a  few 
lobsters  lurked,  draped  with  seaweed,  and  that  was  all. 
She  glanced  at  the  area  way,  and  caught  the  sound  of 
Jaughter,  and  her  mind  was  made  up.  It  was  the 
work  of  a  moment  to  re-collect  Fanny's  finery,  and 
to  repack  the  hoop.  Clasping  it  in  her  slender  young 
arms,  she  started  down  again,  feeling  cautiously  for 
each  step,  under  the  enormous  burden  of  the  crinoline. 
Her  breath  fluttered  in  her  throat,  and  she  laughed 
nervously  to  herself,  although  the  situation  did  not 
strike  her  as  in  the  least  funny.  With  a  desperate 
earnestness,  she  assaulted  the  fish  cart  with  the  hoop- 
skirt,  and  gradually  the  thing  yielded;  it  elongated 
itself  sufficiently  to  begin  to  enter  the  box  of  the 
wagon,  and  then  it  became  but  an  affair  of  muscle, 
and  the  deed  was  done!  When  the  fish  man  emerged 
from  the  areaway,  he  found  a  breathless  young  lady 
just  closing,  with  a  firm  hand,  the  door  of  his  cart. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  in  a  high  strained  voice,  "that 
you  have  some  fine  lobsters  this  morning." 

"Yes'm,"  replied  the  fish  man  laconically.    He  waP 


64  THE  CORTLANDTS 

not  an  observant  individual.  "Can  I  show  them  to 
.ye?" 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you.  I  have  looked  at  them.  Will 
you  kindly  bring  them  around  to  23  Washington 
Square?  I  think  Mr.  Cortlandt's  cook  will  want 
them." 

The  fish  man  brightened,  for  Washington  Square 
trade  was  worth  wheeling  his  cart  some  distance  to 
secure.  "Thank  ye,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  and  he 
got  himself  into  his  shafts  without  more  ado. 

Ann  had  feared  further  neighorbood  traffic,  but 
the  fact  that  his  supply  was  so  nearly  exhausted  saved 
her;  the  little  procession  of  the  fish  cart  in  the  street, 
and  the  girl  on  the  sidewalk  proceeded  unmolested. 

When  the  man  paused  before  Mr.  Cortlandt's  door 
Ann  was  a  little  way  behind  him,  she  quickened  her 
steps  with  an  effect  of  pursuit,  and  arrested  him  as 
he  would  have  opened  the  box  where  his  lobsters 
lay. 

"Oh !"  she  cried.  "Wait  a  moment !  There  is  a  lady 
just  around  the  corner  who  wants  to  speak  to  you. 
I  think  she  wants  to  buy  something  from  you." 

The  fish  man  straightened  himself  alertly;  it  seemed 
an  extraordinarily  lucky  morning  for  the  sale  of  his 
wares. 

"Around  the  corner,  did  ye  say,  miss?" 

Ann  had  now  come  up  to  him.  She  stood  with 
her  hand  on  the  door  of  his  little  wagon.  "Yes,"  she 
said  positively,  "just  around  the  corner, — the  first 


ROYALTY  65 

house.  .  .  .  I'll  watch  your  wagon  while  you  are 
gone, — but  you  had  better  hurry." 

He  went  at  once,  with  a  touching  trust  in  the  im- 
perious young  lady  who  was  controlling  his  destinies. 
As  for  Ann,  she  cast  one  imploring  look  over  the 
fagade  of  her  guardian's  house,  and  then  tore  open  the 
door  of  the  wagon.  A  burst  of  crinoline  sprang  out 
at  her,  and  she  laid  violent  hands  upon  it.  She  tugged, 
and  it  resisted;  she  coaxed,  and  it  sprang  back  again, 
and  in  the  meantime,  the  plodding  fish  man  neared  the 
corner.  She  gave  a  despairing  pull,  and  all  at  once 
the  entire  skirt  leaped  upon  her,  scattering  various 
articles  of  Fanny's  apparel  to  the  four  winds  of  Wash- 
ington Square.  The  fish  man  rounded  the  corner, — 
thank  heaven  he  had  not  looked  back ! — and  the  house- 
front  still  beamed  kindly  down  on  her.  She  disengaged 
a  clinging  lobster  from  a  rib  of  the  hoop,  and  fled 
incontinently  into  the  areaway.  Contrary  to  rules, 
the  door  was  not  locked,  and  she  plunged  headlong 
into  the  haven  of  her  guardian's  house. 

The  bewildered  fish  man,  on  returning  fruitlessly 
from  the  corner,  found  his  cart  deserted,  and  the  doors 
gaping.  On  appealing  to  the  cook  in  behalf  of  his 
lobsters,  he  received  only  the  irritated  refusal  of  a 
temperamental  genuis  engaged  in  a  masterpiece;  he 
made  no  sales  in  Washington  Square  that  day,  and 
as  for  the  strange  young  lady, — he  never  set  eyes  on 
her  again.  However, — and  this  is  the  most  curious 
part  of  his  experience, — when  he  came  to  clear  out 


66  THE  CORTLANDTS 

his  wagon,  he  found,  shining  bright  among  the  sea- 
weed, a  bright  new  dollar,  and,  wound  about  the  last 
remaining  lobster,  a  long  pink  silk  stocking  that  was 
surely  an  exotic  in  a  fish  cart! 

At  half  after  six  o'clock  that  night  Mrs.  Cortlandt 
was  nervously  awaiting  the  arrival  of  His  Royal  High- 
ness,— and  Mrs.  Vanderdyken.  The  other  guests  were 
there,  decorously  assembled  before  young  Albert  Ed- 
ward should  enter,  and  Mrs.  William  was  by  no  means 
certain  how  she  should  manage  the  situation  if  the 
lady's  entrance  followed  that  of  the  prince.  She  cast 
agitated  glances  at  her  calm  brother-in-law,  and  it  was 
with  tremendous  relief  that  she  heard  a  little  stir  in 
the  hall.  She  turned  with  an  effusive  welcome  on 
her  lips  to  greet  the  delayed  guest. 

The  door  swung  fully  open,  but  Joseph's  voice  did 
not  sound  the  glorious  name  of  Mrs.  Vanderdyken  in 
the  ringing  British  fashion  which,  in  the  morning,  she 
had  instructed  him  to  adopt.  Instead  the  horrified 
Mrs.  William  caught  the  unmistakable  sound  of  a 
chuckle.  There  was  a  faint  murmur  of  excited  move- 
ment without,  and  then  the  doorway  was  filled  by  a 
vision  of  youth  and  beauty  that  was  bewilderingly 
familiar,  and  irritatingly  different,  but  that  was  as- 
suredly not  Mrs.  Vanderdyken.  Ann,  elegant  and  sud- 
denly lovely,  her  rich  hair  piled  on  her  small  head,  her 
wide  pink  skirts  spreading  out  from  a  miraculously 
slim  waist,  leaned  confidentially  toward  her. 

"Mrs.  Vanderdyken  has  sprained  her  ankle,"  she 
murmured  low,  "and  I  am  taking  her  place." 


ROYALTY  67 

She  caught  her  guardian's  eye,  and  swept  past  the 
astonished  hostess,  into  the  midst  of  the  guests. 
It  was  too  late  to  stop  her,  but  it  was  possibily  as  well 
for  the  decorum  of  the  prince's  dinner  party  that  the 
full  enormity  of  the  girl's  act  did  not  immediately 
dawn  on  Mrs.  William;  it  was  some  time  before  she 
recognized  in  Ann's  charming  costume  the  dress  which 
she  had,  with  so  much  care,  prepared  for  her  Fanny 
to  wear  to  the  prince's  ball. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  looked  at  Ann  with  twinkling  eyes; 
he  was  amused  at  her  defiance,  and  delighted  at  the 
sudden  revelation  of  her  beauty.  Ann  saw  at  once 
that  she  should  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him,  and 
she  drew  a  quick  breath  of  relief.  He  comprehended 
the  situation  immediately,  and  explained,  as  he  pater- 
nally circled  the  drawing-room  with  her,  that,  in  the 
sudden  emergency  of  Mrs.  Vanderdyken's  ankle,  he 
had  allowed  his  ward  to  come  to  the  table,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  she  was  not  yet  "out."  She  had  no  more 
than  politely  greeted  the  ladies  present,  when  the  prince 
was  announced,  and  the  little  excitement  of  her  arrival 
was  over.  She  stood  modestly  at  one  side,  watching 
the  flurried  curtsies  of  the  New  York  matrons,  and 
wondering,  nervously,  if  the  sachet  she  had  tucked  into 
her  bodice  was  sufficiently  strong  to  overcome  an  odor 
of  fish  that  clung  mysteriously  about  her.  She  felt 
no  concern  about  her  bare  young  neck  and  arms,  beau- 
tifully white  above  her  pink  tarlatan,  but  she  bent  her 
knees  a  trifle,  under  Fanny's  short  skirts,  so  that  the 
horrid  secret  of  her  cotton  stockings  might  not  be 


68  THE  CORTLANDTS 

exposed  to  a  censorious  world:  only  the  tips  of  her 
slippers  showed  beneath  her  crinoline, — silken  and  ir- 
reproachable. 

She  had  a  few  moments'  talk  with  the  prince,  after 
the  dinner  was  over.  He  came  across  to  her,  and  asked 
why  he  had  not  seen  her  at  the  ball. 

"Because  I  was  not  there,"  she  answered  demurely. 
"I  am  too  young." 

"But  you  are  here  ?" 

Ann  looked  at  him  with  speculative  eyes.  "I  have 
a  great  mind  to  tell  you  how  that  happened,"  she  said 
daringly,  and  in  response  to  his  urging  she  did  tell 
him  all  the  disgraceful  story  of  the  fish  cart.  The 
heir  to  the  throne  of  England  laughed  so  much  that 
Mrs.  William  came  to  take  him  away,  and  Ann  had 
only  a  word  with  him  again  as  he  was  leaving. 

"I  wish  you  had  been  at  the  ball,"  he  said,  taking 
her  hand  cordially  as  she  regained  her  poise  after  a 
somewhat  shaky  curtsey.  "In  Canada  they  made  me 
dance  with  all  the  old  chaps, — but  here  I  could  choose 
the  prettiest  girls.  I  am  sure  you  must  dance  beauti- 
fully. Good-by, — I  shall  never  forget  the  fish  cart!" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  was  very  kind  to  her;  she  had  been 
right  in  thinking  herself  forgiven.  He  soothed  Mrs. 
William's  justifiable  irritation  with  promises  of  new 
frocks  for  Fanny,  and  he  admitted  Ann's  plea  that 
she  was  now  grown  up.  It  was  decided  that  she  might 
make  her  debut  on  her  seventeenth  birthday,  only  six 
months  away. 


ROYALTY  69 

"Silly  little  moth!"  he  said  sadly.  "Some  day,  my 
dear, — some  day  you  will  look  back,  and  say  it  was  a 
wise  old  man  who  told  you  that  childhood  was  not 
such  a  bad  time.  .  .  .  But  then  it  will  be  too 
late!" 

Thus  did  Ann  snatch  victory  from  defeat,  but  it 
was  not  of  her  approaching  majority  that  she  thought, 
as  she  dreamily  removed  Fanny's  gorgeous  raiment. 
Instead  she  tremulously  recalled  the  eager  look  in  the 
eyes  of  the  English  boy,  as  he  told  her  he  wished  she 
had  been  at  the  ball,  because  there  he  had  danced  with 
the  prettiest  girls;  and  the  tempo  of  her  inner  con- 
sciousness was  quickened  by  dreams  of  royal  mar- 
riages, red  carpets  and  crown  jewels. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WAR  AND   A   DEBUT 

MOMENTOUS  things  happened  in  the  winter  before 
the  opening  of  the  Civil  War,  and  Ann  Byrne  spent 
a  thrilling  six  months  hearing  them  discussed.  Night 
after  night  a  number  of  her  guardian's  friends  met 
in  the  library  of  the  Washington  Square  house  to  talk 
over  the  affairs  of  the  day,  and  the  girl  almost  always 
managed  to  be  included  in  the  group;  she  became  a 
pet  of  Charles  A.  Dana,  who  was  amused  at  her 
un feminine  interest  in  politics,  and  delighted  in  dw*- 
ing  her  into  the  discussion. 

Sympathy  for  the  cause  of  the  South  centered  in 
New  York,  for  a  good  proportion  of  the  newspapers  in 
town  defended  the  doctrine  of  secession,  and  feeling 
ran  high.  In  the  beginning,  Mr.  Cortlandt  himself  be- 
lieved that  any  state  had  the  right  to  secede  from  the 
Union  if  its  people  voted  to  do  so,  but  he  was  unalter- 
ably opposed  to  any  extension  of  slavery.  As  for  Ann, 
she  read  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  four  times  in  as  many 
months,  and  became  as  violent  an  abolitionist  as  any 
of  her  guardian's  friends  who  came  over  from  New 
England  to  argue  their  beliefs  with  the  more  temperate 
New  Yorkers.  Over  at  the  Renneslyers',  the  atmos- 
phere was  very  difficult.  Hendricks'  father  delighted 
in  defending  the  complaisant  administration  at  Wash- 
ington, and  Ann  was  amazed  at  Mr.  Cortlandt's  pa- 

70 


WAR  AND  A  D£BUT  71 

tience  in  listening  to  him.  She  tried  very  hard,  on 
her  part,  to  maintain  dignified  relations  which  should 
signify  disapproval,  but  was  unable  to  do  so,  because 
Mr.  Renneslyer  simply  would  not  have  it ;  always  after 
he  had  fallen  out  with  her,  he  would  make  it  his  busi- 
ness to  regain  her  favor.  His  public  rejoicing  over  the 
general  election  in  New  England  and  New  York  State, 
which  followed  the  national  election,  and  showed  a 
marked  increase  of  secession  strength,  cost  him  a  pair 
of  parlor  skates,  and  his  participation  in  an  anti- 
interference  mass  meeting,  a  visit  to  Barnum's  Mu- 
seum. Ann  was  by  no  means  proof  against  such 
seductive  measures  to  gain  her  favor,  and  they 
wandered  among  the  animals  and  the  freaks  as  happy 
as  two  children,  admiring  the  wild  beasts  and  marvel- 
ing at  the  minuteness  of  twenty-four-inch  Commodore 
Xutt.  The  girl  liked  to  go  out  with  Mr.  Renneslyer. 
His  flamboyant  looks  amused  her;  his  luxuriant  side- 
whiskers,  parted  and  brushed  back,  shone  with 
pomade,  and  his  ties  and  collars  were  always  the  most 
extreme  of  their  kind.  She  could  not  help  liking  him, 
although  she  could  not  understand  this  weakness  in  her 
guardian. 

From  the  time  she  first  heard  of  him  Ann  had 
been  a  champion  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  although  she 
could  not  have  said  why.  Certainly  she  got  none  of 
her  enthusiasm  from  the  people  about  her,  for  even 
Mr.  Cortlandt  had  a  New  Yorker's  distrust  of  a  leader 
from  the  rural  West.  She  overheard  Mrs.  Rennes- 
lyer say  to  Fanny's  mother,  "The  girl  likes  the  creature 


72  THE  CORTLANDTS 

because  he  comes  from  the  same  sort  of  unspeakable 
environment  that  she  did."  Sometimes  Ann  won- 
dered if  she  were  not  right.  She  was  aware  of  a 
sense  of  kinship  with  the  plain  Illinois  politician;  she 
felt  sure  that  they  knew  the  same  things  about  life, 
and  that,  owing  to  the  hard  country  upbringing  they 
had  in  common,  they  were  more  deeply  wise  than  the 
sophisticated  men  and  women  who  surrounded  her. 

When  the  news  of  Mr.  Lincoln's  nomination  reached 
New  York,  Ann  was  the  sole  member  of  a  gathering 
at  her  guardian's  house  who  did  not  regret  his  suc- 
cess. "My  ward,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  had  said,  smiling 
somewhat  wryly,  "is  a  great  admirer  of  the  rail 
splitter.  She  has  never  agreed  with  the  rest  of  us 
in  our  belief  that  Mr.  Seward  is  the  man  to  save  the 
situation."  Ann  was  somewhat  embarrassed,  but  she 
was  proud  of  herself,  too,  and  of  her  capacity  to  pick 
a  winner. 

The  election  of  Abraham  Lincoln  was  the  signal 
for  greater  defiance  on  the  part  of  the  Cotton  States, 
and  much  uneasiness  was  felt  as  to  the  future.  Ann 
always  remembered  a  solemn  conference  of  her  guar- 
dian's friends  in  regard  to  an  editorial  by  Mr.  Greeley 
called  "Going  to  Go,"  which  appeared  the  second  day 
after  the  election.  In  it  he  deplored  the  idea  of  dis- 
union, but  stated  his  belief  that  if  the  people  of  any 
state,  after  due  deliberation,  voted  to  secede,  the  na- 
tional government  had  no  right  to  question  the  action. 

"You  are  right,  Greeley,"  said  Mr.  Cortlandt.  "Of 
course  you  are  right  We  all  agree  to  that, — but  it's 


WAR  AND  A  DfiBUT  73 

a  pretty  complicated  thing,  this  withdrawal  from  the 
Union,  and  your  editorial'  is  sure  to  give  a  lot  of 
comfort  to  the  South."  He  was  entirely  correct  in 
this  assumption,  for  less  important  papers  followed 
the  great  man's  lead,  and  the  secessionists  were 
mightily  cheered. 

In  December  South  Carolina  finally  took  the  greatly 
discussed  step,  and  withdrew  from  the  United  States. 
,This  move  had  been  so  long  anticipated  that  it  was 
received  with  surprising  calm,  but  a  few  days  later 
the  North  awoke  to  a  real  shock  on  hearing  that  Major 
Anderson,  who  was  stationed  in  Charleston  Harbor, 
had  retired  from  the  untenable  Fort  Moultrie  to  Fort 
Sumter,  which  was,  he  stated,  better  prepared  to  with- 
stand attack.  This  news  was  quickly  followed  by  the 
announcement  that  the  secretary  of  war  had  resigned, 
because  President  Buchanan  had  refused  to  order 
Anderson  back  to  Moultrie,  and  ugly  stories  began  to 
leak  out  of  late  transfers  of  government  arms  and  mu- 
nitions to  the  Southern  States.  After  this  there  was 
appreciably  less  talk,  in  the  North,  of  conciliation  or 
compromise.  Immediately  after  Anderson's  move 
the  federal  arsenal  at  Charleston  was  seized  by  volun- 
teer troops  acting  under  state  authority,  together  with 
all  the  harbor  and  island  defenses,  except  Sumter. 
Without  a  protest  from  the  secessionists  who  filled 
the  offices,  the  custom  house  and  the  post-office  were 
also  taken  over  by  the  state  government,  and  the  flag  of 
South  Carolina  was  raised  over  them  on  December 
thirty-first. 


74  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Before  many  weeks  five  other  Southern  States  had 
seceded,  while  in  New  York  the  men  who  were  friendly 
to  the  South  were  openly  triumphant.  Mr.  Cortlandt 
was  very  unhappy  in  those  days,  for  he  was  torn  be- 
tween his  judgment  and  his  emotions:  he  used  to  tell 
Ann  that  he  envied  her  her  whole-souled  intolerance 
of  the  slave-holders.  "It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  sit  here 
in  New  York,  comfortable  and  impotent,  and  watch 
this  great  country  torn  apart,"  he  said.  "I  am  sorry 
that  I  have  lived  to  see  it." 

Arsenals,  forts  and  revenue  cutters  were  taken  over 
almost  daily  during  the  last  weeks  of  December,  1860, 
and  early  in  the  new  year  a  ship  sent  to  bring  supplies 
to  Fort  Sumter  was  fired  on,  and  forced  to  turn  back. 
The  political  complexion  changed  rapidly  in  the  North, 
and  the  very  people  who  had  lamented  Mr.  Lincoln's 
election  because  the  South  looked  on  it  as  a  threat, 
ROW  deplored  the  fact  that  he  did  not  come  out  in 
belligerent  pronunciamentos  against  the  Seceding 
States.  It  was  a  time  when  events  moved  rapidly,  and 
opinions  reversed  overnight. 

In  January  Mayor  Wood,  encouraged  by  the  clamor 
of  the  pro-secessionists,  recommended  to  the  common 
council  that  the  city  of  New  York,  too,  should  secede, 
and  become  a  free  town.  This  amazing  suggestion 
aroused  the  indignation  and  the  ridicule  of  every  one ; 
and  newspapers  which  had  been  advocating  the  south- 
ern point  of  view  became,  in  consequence  of  this  gen- 
eral change  of  opinion,  appreciably  less  partizan.  Many 
of  the  pro-secessionists  came  over  to  the  other  camp, 


WAR  AND  A  DfiBUT  75 

— among  them,  to  Ann's  great  delight,  Theodore 
Renneslyer.  In  spite  of  this  swing  of  public  sentiment, 
however,  not  a  month  passed  before  forty  thousand 
merchants  signed  a  petition  to  the  president  urging 
a  peaceful  settlement  of  the  national  difficulties,  and 
the  Chamber  of  Commerce  appointed  a  delegation  to 
take  it,  in  a  body,  to  Washington. 

All  these  efforts  to  stem  the  overwhelming  tide  were 
in  vain.  As  the  spring  drew  on,  Major  Anderson's 
situation  in  Fort  Sumter  grew  critical,  and  civil  war, 
until  recently  a  thing  which  might  be  argued  about, 
loomed  close  and  passionate.  Ann  found  the  prospect 
of  it  so  exciting  that  she  almost  forgot  her  approach- 
ing debut.  It  was  with  a  divided  mind  that  she 
ordered  her  new  frocks,  and  her  bonnet  which  the 
milliner  assured  her  was  an  exact  copy  of  the  one 
worn  by  the  beautiful  Empress  Eugenie. 

In  February  a  convention  of  the  Seceded  States  was 
called  in  Montgomery,  Alabama,  where  a  provisional 
framework  of  the  Confederate  States  of  America  was 
adopted,  and  Jefferson  Davis  was  elected  president. 
His  inaugural  address  antedated  Abraham  Lincoln's 
by  a  trifle  more  than  a  fortnight. 

On  the  whole,  apathetic  incredulity  was  the  senti- 
ment which  seemed  most  widely  diffused  in  the  North, 
but  there  were  still  optimists  who  hoped  for  a  peace- 
ful solution.  "As  long  as  they  haven't  fired  on  the 
flag,  I  don't  see  why  we  should  worry,"  Mrs.  Rennes- 
lyer said  repeatedly,  regardless  of  Ann's  impatience,  or 
her  brother's  stern  silence. 


76  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Mr.  Cortlandt  went  over  to  Washington  for  the 
inauguration,  and  would  have  taken  Ann  with  him, 
had  not  an  inconvenient  and  belated  attack  of  measles 
kept  her  at  home.  He  left  some  days  before  the  event, 
as  he  wished  to  consult  with  various  people  in  the 
capital,  and  he  arrived  to  hear  that  Brigadier-General 
Twiggs,  Commander  of  the  United  States  troops  in  the 
Department  of  Texas,  had  turned  his  entire  army  over 
to  the  seceding  state  government,  together  with  all 
equipment  and  munitions  in  his  control. 

"This  is  the  final  touch,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  wrote  Ann, 
"One-half  the  total  military  force  of  our  country  is 
in  what  we  must  call  enemy  hands.  .  .  .  Wash- 
ington is  in  a  state  of  terror.  Invasion  may  be  looked 
for  at  once,  in  case  of  trouble,  and  the  loyal  senators 
and  congressmen  agree  with  me  that  all  rests  in  the 
hands  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  I  wish  I  felt,  as  you 
instinctively  do,  that  he  has  the  capacity  to  handle  the 
situation.  ...  In  his  Indianapolis  speech  he  has 
indicated  that  he  considers  it  within  the  rights  of  the 
United  States  to  hold  and  retake  her  forts  and  other 
property.  I  fully  agree  with  him  in  this.  Please  God 
he  has  the  resolution  and  fortitude  to  live  up  to  this 
sentiment;  in  voicing  it  he  has  shown  greater  courage 
than  any  other  political  leader,  including  Mr.  Seward, 
whose  nomination  I  so  earnestly  desired." 

When  he  came  back  to  New  York,  Ann  found  him 
in  a  much  more  hopeful  state.  He  thought  highly  of 
the  inaugural  address,  and  he  had  met  and  talked  with 
the  new  president,  and  advised  with  him  in  regard  to 


WAR  AND  A  DfiBUT  77 

some  of  his  appointments.  "He  is  a  shrewd  man," 
he  told  the  girl,  "shrewd,  and  able,  and  something 
more.  .  .  .  He  has  a  gift  of  speech,  but  that  is 
not  all.  .  .  .  He  is  a  great  humanitarian,  and  a 
dreamer.  ...  It  may  be  that  he  will  prove  the 
man  for  the  hour.  But  what  an  hour!  It  will  take 
all  his  humor,  and  all  the  jokes  he  can  extract  from 
his  professional  funny  men." 

"Uncle,  don't  you  think  that  I  had  better  postpone 
my  party  until  all  this  trouble  is  over?"  She  won- 
dered why  he  looked  at  her  for  so  long  a  time,  before 
he  answered  her. 

"No,  my  dear.  .  .  .  Youth.  ...  We  shall 
have  the  party  as  planned,  no  matter  what  comes 
after." 

Ann  beamed  radiantly  upon  him.  "And  perhaps 
by  the  thirteenth  of  April  everything  will  be  all  right 
again,"  she  said  hopefully. 

Throughout  the  latter  part  of  March  and  the  early 
part  of  April  it  looked  as  if  Ann's  optimistic  judg- 
ment was  justified,  for  nothing  of  great  importance 
happened.  The  invitations  to  her  debut  were  en- 
graved, and  deliberately  delivered  by  the  ladies  of  the 
family,  who  drove  about  in  the  warm,  early  spring 
sunshine,  leaving  them  at  the  houses  of  their  friends. 
If  Mr.  Cortlandt  was  but  half-hearted  in  sharing  in 
these  preparations,  he  did  not  say  so,  and  only  Ann 
knew  that  he  was  not  relieved  at  the  lull  in  political 
affairs. 

It  was  on  the  day  before  the  reception  that  the  calm 


78  THE  CORTLANDTS 

broke  in  a  most  startling  manner.  Major  Anderson 
had  been  in  communication  with  Washington,  and 
every  one  knew  that  he  had  requested  supplies  to  be 
sent  to  him  at  once,  but  no  one  really  believed  that 
the  troops  of  the  Confederate  States  would  actually 
attack;  the  situation  had  been  a  threatening  one  for 
so  long  that  people  had  grown  used  to  it.  When,  how- 
ever, the  news  reached  New  York  that  Fort  Sumter, 
flying  the  American  flag,  had  been  fired  upon,  it  lighted 
the  city  like  a  torch.  Sympathy  with  the  secessionists 
was  forgotten,  or  discreetly  silenced,  and  indignation 
arose  shrilly  from  all  quarters  of  the  town.  So  insis- 
tent was  the  clamor  that  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the 
guns  turned  on  the  little  fort  near  Charleston  could 
be  heard  echoing  across  New  York. 

The  general  impression  was,  however,  that  the  de- 
fenders of  the  post  could  easily  subdue  the  attacking 
party.  The  papers  were  full  of  vainglorious  tributes 
to  northern  arms  and  northern  courage,  and  the  fash- 
ion of  the  hour  was  to  scoff  at  this  foolhardy  attempt 
of  the  rebels.  Mrs.  William  suggested,  it  is  true, 
that  it  might  be  well  to  recall  the  invitations  Mr. 
Cortlandt  had  issued,  but  he  indignantly  refused  to 
consider  such  a  thing,  and  Mrs.  Renneslyer  agreed 
with  him. 

"What  ?"  she  cried.  "Announce  to  the  creatures  that 
we  take  them  seriously!  They'll  think  that  we  are 
afraid  of  'em,  next!" 

Therefore,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  bombardment 
continued,  and  that  Major  Anderson  was  slow  in 


WAR  AND  A  DfiBUT  79 

crushing  the  forces  attacking  him,  the  preparations 
for  Ann's  party  went  on,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
troubled  times,  on  the  evening  of  April  thirteenth  the 
Jine  of  family  carriages  reached  all  the  way  from  Mr. 
Cortlandt's  door  to  Fifth  Avenue;  even  there  it  turned, 
like  a  column  of  artillery,  and  stretched  away  up  that 
aristocratic  street  almost  to  the  resplendent  portals  of 
the  Brevoort  Hotel. 

Ann  stood  beside  her  guardian,  and  in  his  opinion 
she  was  the  loveliest  thing  in  all  New  York,  in  that 
budding  April  weather.  Her  gown  was  white,  of 
course,  and  taking  advantage  of  her  unusual  height, 
the  dressmaker  had  given  a  great  spread  to  the  skirts. 
The  girl's  slim  body  and  small  brilliant  head  rose  above 
them  as  above  a  cloud ;  she  floated,  rather  than  walked. 
Her  hair  had  not  darkened  with  the  passing  years; 
it  was  as  uncompromisingly  red  as  it  had  been  on  the 
day  she  accompanied  her  frightened  mother  to  New 
York.  She  wore  it  in  a  great  roll  on  her  neck,  and 
it  was  drawn  smoothly  down  beside  her  sensitive, 
irregular  face,  in  which  the  lips  were  so  daringly  red. 
Under  the  parted  waves  on  her  forehead  her  gray 
eyes  seemed  almost  black;  they  were  Irish  eyes,  and 
had  in  them  always  a  deceptive  hint  of  melancholy. 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  received  with  her  brother  on  this 
important  occasion,  and  in  spite  of  her  instinctive 
antipathy  to  Ann,  she  was  forced  to  confess  that  the 
girl  did  her  guardian  credit.  She  said,  very  sweetly, 
to  Mr.  Cortlandt,  that  she  was  extraordinarily  lovely. 
She  had  written  to  young  Hendricks  to  come  over 


8o  THE  CORTLANDTS 

from  Harvard  for  his  uncle's  reception,  and  she  won- 
dered what  effect  Ann's  sudden  transformation  might 
have  on  him.  She  rather  suspected  a  soft  tendency 
toward  love  surprisingly  implanted  in  her  son, — some- 
how she  had  counted  upon  his  inheriting  her  metallic 
quality,  rather  than  his  father's  well-known  warm- 
heartedness,— and  she  wondered  if,  after  all,  this  im- 
pressionability might  not  be  turned  to  advantage. 
The  debutante  heard  of  his  expected  arrival  with  care- 
less attention,  but  Mrs.  Renneslyer  observed  that  little 
Fanny  Cortlandt  spent  much  more  time  than  usual,  that 
night,  over  her  toilet,  and  as  she  slipped  about  her 
uncle's  rooms,  sweetly  attending  to  the  comfort  of  his 
guests,  she  thought  that  there  was  an  unaccustomed 
color  in  her  cheeks,  and  that  her  eyes,  which  constantly 
strayed  to  the  door,  were  unusually  bright.  She 
frowned,  briefly  but  decidedly.  Fanny  was  not  her 
idea  of  a  brilliant  daughter-in-law. 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  the  reception  took  on  more 
the  aspect  of  a  ball.  The  older  men  gathered  in  the 
doorways,  grave-faced  above  their  shirt-fronts,  and 
painstakingly  avoided  the  subject  of  the  bombardment, 
while  the  dowagers  occupied  chairs  against  the  walls, 
fanned  themselves,  and  whispered  that  "all  this  talk 
of  war  is  fearfully  exaggerated,"  and  that  "Major 
Anderson  can,  of  course,  hold  his  own."  The  young 
people,  irresponsible  and  gay,  took  possession  of  the 
floor:  the  house  was  full  of  whirling  couples.  Ann 
had  no  lack  of  partners,  and  she  whispered  to  Mrs. 
Renneslyer  and  Mr.  Cortlandt,  as  they  stood,  waiting 


WAR  AND  A  DEBUT.  81 

by  the  door,  that  she  felt  just  like  a  popular  young 
lady  in  a  novel.  She  smiled  into  her  guardian's  eyes 
when  she  sashayed  toward  him,  in  the  figures  of  the 
quadrille,  and  Mrs.  Renneslyer  shrewdly  observed  her 
f  evident  popularity,  as,  after  her  pleasant  habit,  she 
talked  a  great  amount  of  smiling  nonsense  to  various 
young  men,  and  wondered,  audibly,  at  her  son's  non- 
appearance. 

It  was  almost  midnight  when  Fanny  Cortlandt  told 
her  aunt,  with  a  little  gasp  of  relief,  that  young 
Hendricks  had  arrived,  and  almost  immediately  he 
appeared  in  the  doorway.  He  had  grown  somewhat 
taller,  and  his  clothes  were  artfully  cut,  so  that  he 
did  not  appear  frankly  fat;  his  round  face  was  filled 
with  open  dismay. 

"Why, — what  has  happened?"  his  mother  said 
anxiously. 

The  boy  looked  about  him  dazedly,  as  though  for 
a  moment  he  could  not  adjust  himself  to  the  fact  that 
dancing  and  gaiety  were  going  on.  "You  haven't 
heard,  sir, — have  you  ?"  he  said  to  his  uncle,  solemnly. 
"Fort  Sumter  has  surrendered!" 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Renneslyer  shrilly.  "That  means 
war!"  Her  pretty  face  blanched  at  the  thought. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  stood,  for  a  moment,  staggered ;  then 
he  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  made  an 
imperative  gesture  that  silenced  the  musicians.  Only 
one  inattentive  violin  trailed  on  for  an  instant,  after 
the  others  were  still,  in  a  foolish  travesty  of  the  air. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  and  his  cold  formal  voice 


82  THE  CORTLANDTS 

shook,  "we  have  had  enough  of  dancing!  Fort 
Sumter  has  fallen !" 

A  hubbub  of  exclamation  arose  about  him.  Young 
men  dropped  their  clinging  partners,  and  drew  to- 
gether, frowning  nervously.  A  few  of  the  girls 
showed  signs  of  tender  tearfulness,  and  Mrs.  Vander- 
dyken,  who  was  the  mother  of  four  sons,  one  of  whom 
had  recently  graduated  from  West  Point,  burst  openly 
into  tears. 

Ann  looked  at  Hendricks  with  a  new  respect. 
"Oh,"  she  cried,  "if  I  were  only  a  boy!" 

"Yes,"  he  said  importantly,  "I  shall  fight,  of 
course."  As  he  spoke  he  took  in,  for  the  first 
time,  her  new  maturity,  and  his  face  dropped.  Of 
all  the  strange  events  of  this  curiously  unreal  evening, 
the  change  in  Ann  was  perhaps  the  strangest;  there 
was  something  about  her  that  awoke  his  sluggish 
spirit,  something  beyond  his  whispered  comment  to 
Fanny,  "Why, — Ann's  grown  pretty!" 

In  the  crowded,  overheated  room,  with  its  drooping 
hothouse  roses  and  its  flaring  lights,  a  new  sentiment 
was  suddenly  diffused.  Execrations  of  the  South 
arose  on  every  hand,  and  threats  ripped  like  bullets 
across  the  hum  of  excited  talk.  A  little  group  of 
men  burst  from  the  supper  room,  Mr.  Renneslyer  in 
the  lead,  flushed  of  face,  and  noisily  threatening;  they 
were  louder  than  any,  in  their  resentment.  Ann 
pressed  through  the  crowd  to  where  the  musicians 
stood  idle,  their  instruments  dangling  in  their  hands; 


WAR  AND  A  DEBUT  83 

she  found  the  leader  with  his  face  flushed,  and  his 
fists  clenched. 

"Mein  Gott!"  he  said  to  her.  "Dot  mean  I  fight!" 
She  whispered  a  direction  to  him,  and  suddenly  the 
opening  strains  of  America  rose,  high  and  sweet,  over 
the  ardent  confusion.  Here  and  there  a  daring  voice 
took  up  the  words,  but  a  leader  was  needed,  and  the 
song  would  have  died  had  not  Mr.  Renneslyer,  who 
was  standing  near  the  musicians,  chanced  to  turn  his 
roving  eye  on  Ann's  excited  face.  Without  a  mo- 
ment's thought  he  caught  her  up  in  his  arms,  and 
swung  her  to  a  chair,  where  she  stood  above  the  crowd, 
tremulous  and  frightened,  until  the  thrill  of  the  mo- 
ment caught  her  again ;  then  she  laughed  down  at  Mr. 
Renneslyer's  efforts  to  lead,  and  began  to  sing  the 
words  which  Mrs.  Allen  had  taught  her  long  ago; 
they  were  among  the  few  things  in  her  far-away  child- 
hood that  she  had  not  forgotten. 

"My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 
Of  thee  I  sing!" 

She  was  curiously  exalted,  almost  as  though  she 
were  a  part  of  a  fighting  force.  The  words,  which  had 
never  meant  anything  to  her  before,  were  suddenly 
vitally  important.  She  accented  them  passionately. 

"Long  may  our  land  be  bright, 
With  freedom's  holy  light !" 


84  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Before  the  end  every  one  was  singing  with  her,  in 
a  great  burst  of  sound  that  was  strangely  satisfying  to 
the  emotion  of  the  moment  When  it  was  over  she\ 
paused,  and  drooped,  suddenly  abashed,  and  there  was 
young  Hendricks  below  her;  in  his  eyes  was  an  ex- 
pression that  bewildered  her.  He  held  out  both  his 
hands,  and  she  would  have  jumped  lightly  down,  only 
he  caught  her  clumsily  in  his  arms,  and  set  her  care- 
fully on  the  floor  again.  She  thought  that  he  was 
trembling.  Or  was  it  she  who  shivered,  nervously  ? 

"Gad,  Ann !"  he  said  feelingly.  "What  a  beauty  you 
are!" 

She  looked  at  him  unbelievingly.  "I?"  she  de- 
manded incredulously.  Her  amazed  face  was  dis- 
tinctly provocative. 

There  had  been  a  sudden  sweep  of  guests  toward 
'the  door,  and  in  the  corner  where  the  musicians  had 
played  the  two  were  momentarily  alone.  The  boy 
was  breathing  unevenly  and  hard,  as  though  he  were 
quite  carried  away  by  the  extraordinary  events  of  the 
evening.  He  reached  out  suddenly,  and  drew  his  com- 
panion behind  the  window  curtains ;  meeting  no  oppo- 
sition from  the  startled  girl,  be  bent  and  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  PROMISE 

AT  SEVENTEEN  the  loss  of  a  night's  sleep  is  a  com- 
paratively unimportant  matter,  and  no  one  would  have 
known,  the  morning  after  her  birthday  party,  that  Ann 
had  not  been  plunged  in  dreamless  slumber.  Instead 
of  that,  however,  she  lay  wide-eyed  in  the  dark,  the 
music  of  America  running  through  her  head,  accom- 
panying her  noting  thoughts.  From  the  tangle  of 
them  one  astonishing  fact  arose  clear:  a  man  had 
called  her  beautiful. 

She  would  not  frankly  face  the  fact  that  she  had 
been  kissed,  and  not  for  worlds  would  she  have  ad- 
mitted to  herself  why  she  lay  with  her  hand  against 
her  cheek.  Her  amazement  was  genuine,  but  her 
opinion  of  herself  was  not  changed  by  young  Hen- 
dricks'  sudden  madness;  she  looked  on  his  burst  of 
admiration  as  peculiar  to  him,  and  found  it  extraor- 
dinarily endearing.  Her  opinion  of  him  had  subtly 
changed;  she  was  no  longer  inclined  to  find  him 
ridiculous,  and  she  developed,  on  the  instant,  a  large 
toleration  of  his  irritating  qualities.  He  was  strangely 
glorified  by  his  approval  of  her,  and  so,  all  unknow- 
ing, little  Ann  Byrne  enrolled  herself  in  one  of  the  two 
great  classes  into  which  her  sex  is  divided ;  her  impulse 
was  to  respond  to  love,  rather  than  to  withdraw 
from  it. 

85 


86  THE  CORTLANDTS 

All  night  long  a  multitude  of  sounds  smote  Tier 
windows,  so  after  a  while  she  abandoned  the  possi- 
bility of  sleep,  and,  wrapping  a  quilt  about  her,  she 
leaned,  slim  and  childlike  without  her  crinoline,  over 
the  railing  of  the  balcony  that  ran  across  the  front  of 
the  house.  There  she  could  hear  more  clearly  the 
noises  of  the  gathering  crowds  that  swarmed  the 
streets,  fired  by  the  despatches  from  Sumter,  and  eager 
to  swallow  the  entire  South  at  a  gulp.  Over  the 
undertone  of  the  city,  Ann  heard  shouts;  now  and  then 
she  caught  the  sound  of  a  song,  and  once  a  far-away 
strain  of  instrumental  music.  The  Square  was  de- 
serted, but  as  she  watched  she  saw  a  stealthy  pair  come 
loitering  along  the  sidewalk,  with  clinging  arms  and 
lagging  feet.  At  the  next  house  they  paused,  and  the 
girl,  leaning  curiously  over  her  railing,  could  see  how 
they  still  lingered,  and  how  eagerly  the  woman  lifted 
her  face  to  the  man's  slow  kiss. 

"The  baggage !"  Ann  murmured.  She  impulsively 
drew  back  into  the  house,  but  her  retreat  was  protec- 
tive rather  than  rebuking.  She  felt  bruised  and 
breathless ;  womanhood  was  coming  upon  her  too  fast. 
Inside  the  house  again,  she  determinedly  tried  to  think 
of  the  momentous  fact  that  Fort  Sumter  had  been 
captured,  but  instead  she  found  herself  recalling  the 
expression  on  young  Hendricks*  face  when  he  said 
that  she  had  grown  to  be  a  beauty.  Over  the  trees 
in  Washington  Square  the  dawn  soared  up  on  rose  and 
silver  wings,  but  Ann  found  that  by  closing  her  own 


A  PROMISE  87 

eyes  she  could  see  Hendricks*  quite  plainly,  with  their 
intent  and  troubling  expression. 

In  the  meantime,  the  young  man  himself  had  not 
been  enjoying  his  usual  complacent  peace.  It  is  true 
that  his  sleep  was  not  interrupted,  for  Hendricks  was 
not  the  sort  of  person  to  be  kept  awake  by  mere  emo- 
tions, and  the  Sunday  morning  church  bells  roused  him 
about  ten  o'clock.  He  awoke  with  the  consciousness 
that  something  was  wrong,  and  as  he  recalled  the 
climax  of  his  eventful  evening  he  was  sorry  he  had 
left  Cambridge  and  its  safe  remoteness.  He  won- 
dered, as  he  lay  blinking  at  the  dazzle  of  the  sunlight 
reflected  from  the  bowl  of  water  on  his  washstand  to 
the  white  ceiling  above  him,  if  Ann  would  tell  his 
uncle  that  he  had  kissed  her.  He  writhed  uncom- 
fortably on  his  soft  bed  at  the  thought,  and  then  a 
memory  of  the  girl's  amazing  prettiness  and  the  satis~ 
faction  he  had  had  in  kissing  her,  drove  his  fears  away. 
And  war!  The  thought  came  harshly  athwart  his 
softer  recollections,  and  abruptly  he  jumped  out  of 
bed.  He  knew  that  his  mother  would  expect  him  to 
accompany  her  to  church,  and  he  dressed  with  some 
expedition.  The  fact  that  he  would  have  to  sit  imme- 
diately in  front  of  his  uncle  and  Ann,  conscious,  all 
through  the  service,  of  their  eyes  upon  him,  made  him 
uncomfortable.  He  brushed  his  back  hair  with  some 
precision,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Renneslyer 
was  impatiently  calling  to  him  to  hurry. 

There  was  a  great  crowd  at  church ;  inside  the  ushers 


88  THE  CORTLANDTS 

had  taken  an  unprecedented  step,  and  allowed  strangers 
to  go  into  pews  which  were  not  rilled,  but  in  spite  of 
this  relief,  the  congestion  at  the  gate  was  so  great 
it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  Mrs.  Renneslyer 
maneuvered  her  great  skirts.  She  paused  in  the 
vestibule  to  shake  herself  into  shape,  and  to  adjust 
her  veil. 

"Outrageous!"  she  kept  murmuring.  "That  rabble, 
— at  church !" 

Thanks  to  Hendricks'  delay,  the  service  had  already 
started  when  they  arrived.  His  mother  looked  venom- 
ously at  him,  in  hopes  of  bringing  the  responsibility 
for  this  calamity  home,  but  he  stalked  up  the  aisle, 
impervious  to  her,  and  absently  passed  his  hand  over 
the  back  of  his  head.  Mr.  Cortlandt  sat  in  the  corner 
of  his  pew,  his  white  head  held  stiffly  erect,  after  his 
manner  at  divine  worship,  and  Ann  was  snuggled  close 
beside  him.  Hendricks  could  see  little  of  her  except 
the  scoop  of  her  brown  straw  bonnet,  with  a  glint  of 
her  chignon  below  it.  The  rest  of  the  pew  was  filled 
with  strange  people,  obviously,  Hendricks  thought,  not 
of  their  class. 

Ahead  of  him  his  mother  stopped  abruptly,  horror 
in  her  attitude,  and  his  father  murmured  soothingly, 
"Steady,  old  girl,  steady,"  just  as  he  did  when  driv- 
ing his  spirited  horse.  The  boy  dragged  his  eyes 
from  the  Cortlandt  pew,  and  saw  that  the  space  sacred 
to  the  devotions  of  the  Renneslyer  family  had  also  been 
invaded  by  outsiders;  two  dispirited  young  men  sat 
miserably  there.  Such  a  thing  had  never  occurred 


A  PROMISE  89 

before,  and  he  was  a  little  frightened,  as  he  had  been 
when  a  child,  at  the  prospect  of  an  explosion.  Noth- 
ing happened,  however,  for,  with  a  withering  look  at 
the  usher,  Mrs.  Renneslyer  sailed  into  what  was  left 
of  her  pew,  and  composed  herself  for  worship;  it  was 
as  though  the  lesser  clay  squeezed  in  beside  her  did 
not  exist,  except  that  all  through  the  service  she  found 
satisfaction  in  flouncing  movements  which  repudi- 
ated it. 

People  looked  very  solemn,  Hendricks  thought,  and 
they  joined  in  the  service  with  an  extraordinary 
fervor. 

Behind  him  Ann's  voice  rang  distinct  and  clear  in 
the  hymn,  and  reminded  him,  first  of  her  song  the 
night  before,  and  then  of  the  revival  meetings  long 
ago.  He  began  to  dislike  her  again,  under  the  force 
of  this  reminiscence,  and  he  had  lost  himself  in  wonder 
at  his  behavior  at  the  ball,  when  the  minister  gave  out 
the  text  of  the  sermon. 

"Matthew  ten,  thirty-four — Think  not  that  I  am 
come  to  send  peace  on  earth ;  I  came  not  to  send  peace, 
but  a  sword' !"  Hendricks  jumped  in  his  seat,  and  a 
flutter  of  nervous  movement  agitated  the  congregation. 
"I  came  not  to  send  peace,  but  a  sword."  Up  above 
him  the  minister  stood,  white-robed  and  remote,  speak- 
ing in  a  deep  voice  that  reached  some  far  place  in  his 
soul,  and  tortured  it.  "My  brethren,  this  is  no  ordi- 
nary Sabbath ;  to-day  is  a  momentous  one  in  the  history 
of  our  nation.  Fort  Sumter  has  fallen."  Every  one 
inside  the  church  already  knew  of  that  appalling1 


90  THE  CORTLANDTS 

fact,  but  in  spite  of  that,  a  suppressed  outburst  of 
emotional  sounds  arose.  People  coughed,  Hendricks 
could  see  that  ladies  were  wiping  their  eyes, — across 
the  aisle  his  Aunt  Emily  was  quite  open  about  it, — 
and  even  his  father,  hardened  sportsman  that  he  was, 
breathed  deep  and  audibly.  His  mother  seized  his 
arm,  and  leaned  upon  him,  while  she  drew  her  skirts 
away  from  the  stranger  on  her  left.  All  over  the 
church  there  was  a  murmur  of  movement 

Hendricks  frowned.  He  hated  this  atmosphere  of 
hysteria ;  he  wished  his  mother  would  let  go  his  arm ; 
he  didn't  think  much  of  the  way  the  minister  was 
talking,  extemporaneously,  without  his  usual  sedate 
notes.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  he  couldn't  help  listen- 
ing. ...  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  couldn't  re- 
member ever  listening  like  that  in  church  before. 
.  .  .  The  old  boy  evidently  believed  there  would  be  a 
war,  all  right.  The  prospect  had  begun  to  seem  remote 
to  Hendricks,  but  he  felt  that  people  were  making  a 
good  bit  of  fuss  over  anything  so  simple  as  teaching 
the  southerners  a  lesson.  .  .  .  He  would  just  as 
soon  go  to  fight,  he  thought,  but  he  didn't  hold  with 
stirring  up  a  fellow  like  this.  .  .  .  He  supposed 
Ann  was  in  a  great  state  over  it,  being  only  a  silly 
girl.  .  .  . 

He  was  glad  that  the  sermon,  if  it  could  be  called 
that,  was  a  brief  one,  but  he  found  the  hymn  following 
it  harder  to  bear.  The  music  reached  into  his  vitals 
and  twisted  them  brutally.  Behind  him  Ann's  voice 
soared. 


A  PROMISE  91 

"The  Son  of  God  goes  forth  to  war, 
A  kingly  crown  to  gain. 
His  blood  red  banner  streams  afar. 
Who  follows  in  his  train?" 

What  a  lot  of  noise  the  congregation  made! 
"They  met  the  tyrant's  brandished  steel"  .     *    , 

I 

It  sounded  like  a  multitude  singing. 

"A  noble  army,  men  and  boys,     .     .     . 
Who  follows  in  their  train  f" 

At  last  it  was  over.  The  boy  breathed  deep  in  his 
relief.  He  turned  half  round,  and  met  with  Ann's 
eyes;  they  were  blazing  with  excitement,  but  at  the 
same  time  there  was  something  humid  about  them,  and 
he  swung  back  reluctantly.  She  was  pretty,  he  real- 
ized, above  the  tumult  of  his  sensations. 

Outside,  he  found  his  uncle  waiting  for  him.  "I 
won't  take  you  home  with  me  to-day,  my  boy.  Your 
mother  will  want  you." 

Hendricks  flushed.  He  wondered  if  this  was  a  re- 
buff, but  decided  that  the  old  man's  sad  eyes  were 
kind.  "Perhaps  I  may  see  you  later,"  he  suggested 
tentatively. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  shook  his  head.  "Not  to-day,  I  am 
afraid.  There  are  some  gentlemen  coming  to  my 
house  this  afternoon,  to  talk  over  this  war  business. 


92  THE  CORTLANDTS 

I  can  not  say  when  we  shall  be  finished.  Tomorrow, 
if  you  please,  Hendricks." 

Ann  did  not  look  at  him  at  all.  She  stood  demurely 
beside  her  guardian,  tense  and  remote.  She  gave  the 
<  young  man  only  her  profile,  but  he  found  her  irregular 
little  nose  charming.  He  was  very  gloomy  as  he  duti- 
fully accompanied  his  parents  home,  for  the  giddy 
sweep  of  his  emotions  had  left  him  rather  cross. 

In  the  morning  he  amazed  his  mother  by  coming 
down  to  breakfast  before  nine  o'clock, — he  who  ordi- 
narily slept  until  noon,  when  the  tyranny  of  chapel  at 
eight  was  removed  from  his  life.  "Where  are  you 
off  to  so  early?"  she  asked. 

"I  thought  I  would  go  over  to  Uncle  Hendricks'," 
the  boy  said,  flushing.  He  dumbly  resented  his 
mother's  penetrating  gaze. 

"What  did  you  think  of  Ann?" 

Hendricks  lifted  his  cup,  drank  hastily  of  the  too-hot 
coffee,  and  said,  "She's  pretty." 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  nodded.  "She  is  all  of  that. 
.  .  .  Your  uncle  is  devoted  to  her,  Hendricks." 

"I  know.  Queer,  isn't  it,  when  she  isn't  even  re- 
lated to  him?" 

Mrs.  Renneslyer's  white  fingers  played  a  nervous 
tattoo  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"That  is  the  worst  of  it,"  she  exclaimed.  "If  Hud- 
son's pocketbook  had  not  been  picked  up  by  a  pretty 
fool  in  Union  Park,  Hendricks  would  never  have  heard 
of  Annl" 


A  PROMISE  93 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  while  young  Hen- 
dricks  made  havoc  with  the  beefsteak  and  potatoes. 
It  did  not  seem  to  him  to  be  the  moment  to  voice  a 
faint  gladness  that  Ann  had  not  remained  buried  in 
the  country,  far  from  his  ken.  His  mother  looked 
rather  sharply  at  him,  as  she  continued,  "There  is  no 
use  shutting  our  eyes  to  the  fact  that  he  adores  her. 
We  shall  just  have  to  meet  it  ...  If  she  gets 
it  all  she  will  be  a  great  catch." 

Hendricks  grinned  at  the  idea  of  Ann  Byrne  in 
this  light.     "I  suppose  so." 

"There  will  be  plenty  of  suitors, — when  people  see 
how  devoted  your  uncle  is  to  her." 

"I  suppose  so." 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  allowed  her  son  to  eat  in  peace 
for  a  moment.  Then  she  shot  a  question  unexpectedly 
across  the  table  at  him.  "Do  you  like  her,  Hen- 
dricks?" 

The  young  man  flushed  again.  "She  is  pretty,"  he 
said,  appraisingly.  "And  she  is  a  bit  soft  on  me,  I 
don't  mind  telling  you." 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  looked  skeptically  at  him.  Of  late 
a  germ  of  doubt  had  crept  into  the  perfection  of  her 
maternal  affection.  "What  makes  you  think  so?"  she 
demanded,  definitely. 

Hendricks  smiled  patronizingly  at  her,  and  she  with 
difficulty  mastered  an  inclination  to  smack  him,  grown 
man  that  he  was.  "Oh, — a  fellow  can  always  tell," 
he  answered  vaguely. 


94  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Well,"  she  said  crisply,  "worse  things  than  that 
could  happen  to  you!"  And  with  these  mystifying 
words  she  allowed  him  to  escape. 

As  he  crossed  from  Union  Square  to  his  uncle's 
house  he  found  the  city  in  a  tumult :  now  that  he  had 
grown  accustomed  to  the  idea  of  the  fall  of  Fort 
Sumter  he  thought  that  it  was  rather  silly  to  be  so 
excited,  and  he  wondered  at  his  own  exhilaration  on 
hearing  the  news.  He  bought  a  paper  from  a  boy 
who  was  selling  them  as  fast  as  he  could  deal  them 
out;  in  the  head-lines  he  read  that  the  president  had 
issued  a  call  for  seventy-five  thousand  men  to  enlist  in 
the  army. 

"Damned  nonsense!"  he  said  to  a  man  who  also 
paused  to  buy.  "The  New  York  police  could  do  'em 
up!  That  man  Lincoln  is  scared." 

"Scared?"  echoed  the  stranger  pugilistically.  "I 
reckon,  Bub,  he's  more'n  likely  to  be  mad!" 

Hend ricks  walked  on,  with  an  affectation  of  a  great 
and  superior  calm.  "Bub"  indeed, — and  only  that 
morning  he  had  cut  himself  while  shaving! 

All  about  him  the  town  clamored  for  revenge.  A 
rumor  was  abroad  that  the  Seventh  Regiment  had 
volunteered  for  a  month's  service,  and  Hendricks  was 
impressed  in  spite  of  himself.  In  the  Seventh  was 
enlisted  the  flower  of  the  city,  and  he  felt,  obscurely, 
that  if  the  regiment  of  the  New  York  dandy  responded 
to  the  call  of  the  rail  splitter,  there  must  be  something 
in  the  man»  after  all. 


A  PROMISE  95 

In  Washington  Square  he  found  Ann  pouring  her 
guardian's  coffee;  she  handled  the  big  silver  urn  with 
a  stately  little  air  that  impressed  him.  He  looked  fur- 
tively at  her,  in  her  bright  green  taffeta  dress,  with  a 
black  velvet  Greek  key  pattern  on  the  enormous  skirt, 
and  he  saw,  with  a  distinct  shock,  that  she  was  still 
charming.  Unconsciously  he  had  been  counting  on  her 
returning  to  her  old  days  of  gawky  girlhood,  and  he 
was  unable  to  cope  with  this  fresh  beauty  in  the  morn- 
ing sunlight.  His  uncle  greeted  him  with  his  cus- 
tomary air  of  preoccupied  affection,  and  Hendricks 
threw  Ann  a  grateful  glance.  She  did  not  meet  his 
eyes,  however,  and  he  was  left  with  it  on  his  hands. 
Mr.  Cortlandt  smiled  across  the  table  at  his  ward. 
"You  may  tell  him,  Ann,"  he  said. 

The  girl  kindled  immediately.  "What  do  you  think 
uncle  has  done?"  she  demanded. 

"I  don't  know,"  the  boy  answered  sulkily.  He  was 
cross  because  she  would  not  look  at  him. 

She  flung  an  announcement  at  him  with  the  sudden- 
ness of  a  bomb.  "He  has  found  you  a  place  in  the 
Seventh  Regiment!"  she  cried  triumphantly. 

"Ann  made  me  do  it,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  said,  laughing. 
"I  had  to  send  a  note  over  to  my  friend  the  colonel 
before  I  was  dressed!" 

"Think  of  it,  Hendricks, — you  canv  fight!"  the  girl 
cried.  "Oh, — I  wish  I  were  a  man!" 

Her  guardian  smiled.  "Hendricks  will  fight  for 
you,  my  dear." 


96  THE  CORTLANDTS 

For  the  first  time  that  morning  Ann  looked  full  at 
the  uncomfortable  young  man. 

"Aren't  you  frightened  almost  to  death  that  it  will 
be  all  over  before  you  get  there?"  she  demanded 
tragically. 

His  enthusiasm  grew  under  her  eager  eyes.  "How 
long  before  we  can  start?"  he  asked  his  uncle. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  frowned  impatiently.  "I  am  afraid 
that  it  will  take  four  or  five  days." 

"Oh,"  Hendricks  said,  crestfallen,  "the  war  will  be 
all  over  in  a  week !" 

His  uncle  rose.  "We  shall  hope  so,"  he  said  dully, 
and  added,  "Come  with  me,  Hendricks.  I  wish  to 
talk  with  you." 

The  young  man  followed  him  miserably,  with  re- 
viving fears.  He  lifted  a  nervous  eyebrow  at  Ann, 
on  his  way  to  the  door,  but  she  was  apparently  inter- 
ested only  in  the  contents  of  her  coffee  cup,  and  he  left 
her  unreprieved. 

In  the  library,  where  the  flowers  from  the  ball  were 
fading,  Mr.  Cortlandt  faced  him  with  considerable 
sternness.  "I  am  not  satisfied  with  you,  my  boy,"  he 
said. 

Hendricks'  face  lengthened.  "But,"  he  stammered, 
"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Your  work  at  Harvard  has  been  poor,"  his  uncle 
went  on,  "and  at  that,  I  suspect  your  mother  of  show- 
ing me  only  your  better  reports.  You  have  wasted 
your  time  at  college,  and  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  you 
leave.  A  campaign  will  harden  you,  I  hope.  .  .  . 


A  PROMISE  97 

You  must  do  me  credit,  Hendricks.  Thirty-five  years 
ago  I  was  an  officer  in  the  Seventh." 

"Oh,"  murmured  Hendricks,  vastly  relieved,  "I'll 
do  that,  of  course,  sir." 

"And  when  the  war  is  over, — soon,  please  God, — I 
want  you  to  understand  that  you  are  to  come  back 
here  to  New  York,  and  go  to  work." 

"And  my  education  ?" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  smiled.  "Really,  Hendricks,  it  is 
asking  too  much  to  expect  to  rouse  me  by  this  respect 
for  something  that  is  non-existent!  You  are  not  a 
successful  student,  but  that  does  not  necessarily  mean 
that  you  will  not  be  a  successful  business  man.  I  shall 
find  something  for  you  to  do,  and  life  must  be  your 
teacher.  You  have  your  own  way  to  make." 

Hendricks'  magnificent  little  air  shriveled.  "You 
expect  to  do  nothing  for  me,  sir?"  he  managed  to  in- 
quire. 

"Well, — I  won't  say  nothing.  .  .  .  Ann  is  to 
have  the  bulk  of  my  fortune,  of  course." 

"Mother  said  so,"  the  boy  blurted  out. 

"In  that  case,  my  sister  has  shown  her  customary 
acumen.  She  will  not  be  disappointed." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  will,"  young  Hendricks  exclaimed. 
"It  is  one  thing  to  suspect, — and  quite  another  to 
know !" 

He  made  his  way  gloomily  out  of  the  room ;  to  find 
himself  actually  cut  off  was  catastrophic.  He  stood 
for  a  moment  in  the  hall,  trying  to  adjust  himself, 
and  to  recall  what  it  was  that  his  mother  had  said  to 


98  THE  CORTLANDTS 

him  at  breakfast,  in  regard  to  this  calamity.  She  had 
appeared  to  have  in  mind  some  panacea  that  was  not 
clear  to  her  son. 

Suddenly,  as  he  stood  frowning,  Ann  appeared  on 
the  stairs  above  him.  She  leaned  confidingly  down 
from  the  landing.  "Uncle  scold  you?"  she  demanded, 
smiling  demurely. 

"No,"  Hendricks  said  shortly,  as  he  glanced  about 
for  his  hat. 

Ann  ran  hurriedly  down  a  few  steps.  "Are  you 
going  so  soon  ?"  she  blurted  out.  Then  she  caught  her 
lip  with  her  teeth,  as  if  she  regretted  her  words. 

He  looked  at  her  irresolutely,  and  once  more  the 
conviction  that  she  was  amazingly  pretty  popped  into 
his  head ;  he  was  always  rediscovering  this  fact  at  in- 
convenient moments,  and  he  resented  it.  He  would! 
have  preferred  to  believe  that  the  girl  who  had  de- 
prived him  of  his  inheritance  was  as  ugly  as  the 
stepsisters  in  Grimm's  tales.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said, 
desperately,  "what  I  shall  do."  He  was  very  much 
puzzled,  and  he  wished  that  his  mother  had  the  com- 
fortable habit  of  plain  speech. 

Ann  sidled  down  a  step  or  two,  sliding  her  hand 
along  the  stair  rail.  "You'll  have  to  get  your  uni- 
Iform,"  she  suggested  brightly,  "and  all  that." 

"I  suppose  so." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  were  starry  with 
her  new  appreciation,  and  she  came  down  the  last 
remaining  steps  in  a  little  rush.  "Imagine  it, — a  uni- 


A  PROMISE  99 

form,  and  everything!  You  will  sleep  in  a  blanket, 
Hendricks.  I  just  wish  I  had  the  chance  to!" 

Young  Hendricks  was  conventionally  shocked.  "A 
girl !"  he  protested. 

"It  is  not  my  fault  that  I'm  not  a  boy.  I  am  sure 
I  wish  I  were!" 

A  sudden  consciousness  of  his  manhood  rose  in 
Hendricks.  "I  am  glad  you  are  not,"  he  said  stoutly, 
and  caught  her  hand  in  his. 

Ann  stood  arrested:  in  her  perfect  stillness  there 
was  the  threat  of  one  poised  for  flight.  "You 
shouldn't!"  she  gasped,  her  glance  holding  his. 

"Why  not?     You  are  the  prettiest  girl  I  know." 

Her  lips  drooped,  and  in  her  eyes  were  all  the  sor- 
rows of  the  world.  "I  am  not,  really,"  she  pleaded.  It 
seemed  to  Hendricks  she  grieved  that  he  should  be  so 
deceived. 

He  slipped  a  blundering,  unaccustomed  arm  about 
her  waist,  and  an  acrid  little  shiver  ran  through  the 
girl;  suddenly  she  turned  to  him,  and  buried  her  face 
in  his  shoulder.  The  boy  held  her  for  a  moment,  half 
frightened,  half  cautious;  then  he  bent  and  pressed 
his  lips  to  her  hair.  She  felt  his  touch  and  started 
back;  as  she  lifted  her  face,  he  caught  it  in  both  his 
hands,  and  kissed  her  cool  lips. 

This  time  she  fought  him  off  valiantly  enough,  and 
faced  him  furiously,  with  flashing  eyes  and  uneven 
breath.  He  was  frightened,  as  he  met  her  accusing 
glance. 


ioo  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"It  is  all  right,"  he  said  lamely.  "I  couldn't  help 
it.  ...  I  am  awfully  gone  on  you,  Ann,"  he 
added,  feeling  that  the  situation  demanded  something 
in  the  nature  of  a  declaration. 

"Really?"  she  queried.  "Because  if  you  are, — it's 
all  right!" 

"Then  I  am,"  he  assured  her. 

"And — and  we  are  engaged?"  she  demanded,  her 
eyes  very  wide  and  innocent,  as  they  searched  his. 

"Why — why — "  He  was  wondering  if  this  had 
been  what  his  mother  had  meant. 

"Uncle  won't  mind,"  she  assured  him.  "He  lets 
me  do  every  single  thing  I  want." 

"And  do  you  want  to  be  engaged  to  me  ?" 

"I  don't  know.     ...     I  guess  so." 

He  wanted  to  talk  with  his  mother.  He  was  sure 
that  she  must  approve  of  what  he  was  doing.  "Well, 
then,"  he  said  condescendingly,  "we  will  be." 

"It  doesn't  seem  right, — so  quick,  like  this,"  Ann 
protested.  "I  thought  it  took  a  long  time  to  get 
engaged." 

"Oh,"  reassured  the  boy,  "it  is  always  quick,  when 
a  woman  likes  a  fellow."  He  swaggered,  pardonably. 

She  looked  at  him  with  adoring  eyes.  "I  am  glad 
you  are  going  to  war,"  she  said  unexpectedly. 

"We  had  better  not  tell  any  one  until  I  get  back." 

"A  secret  engagement!  ...  I  should  like  to 
tell  Fanny,  though." 

"Better  not,"  he  hinted  darkly. 

"Why?" 


A  PROMISE  101 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  seem  conceited,  but  I  do  think 
she  likes  me  quite  a  lot." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Ann,  "that  is  romantic  too!" 
And  in  her  voice  there  was  envy  of  Fanny,  and  her 
unrequited  passion. 

Hendricks  Renneslyer  walked  home  with  his  head 
in  a  whirl.  He  had  left  college,  he  was  going  to  war, 
he  was  disinherited,  and  he  had  engaged  himself  to 
be  married.  He  felt  that  he  had  put  in  a  full  morn- 
ing's  work,  look  at  it  as  he  would. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

LETTERS 

A  WEEK  after  the  "heroic  Seventh"  marched  out  of 
a  flag-hung  city,  Ann  received  her  first  love-letter. 
She  snatched  it  from  Joseph's  hand  with  a  thrilling 
sensation  of  joy  that  comes  only  with  the  first.  The 
friendly  old  servant  chuckled  sympathetically  as  he 
watched  her  hurry  up-stairs  with  her  treasure :  he 
divined  what  others  never  suspected,  and  he  went  about 
his  duties  with  his  devoted  head  full  of  thoughts  of 
wedding  cake  and  bridal  veils. 

Ann,  alone  in  the  big  house,  locked  the  door  of  her 
room  behind  her,  before  she  coaxingly  lifted  the  heavy 
seal,  with  its  flaunting  Renneslyer  crest;  somehow  it 
would  not  have  done  to  break  it.  With  a  fluttering 
breath  she  drew  out  the  enclosure,  and  read : 

Washington,  April  26th,  1861. 
DEAREST  ANN: 

We  have  arrived  in  Washington  and  everything  is 
all  right  now.  We  marched  right  up  to  the  White 
House  last  night  when  we  first  came,  and  you  can 
believe  the  president  was  glad  to  see  us!  He  came 
out  on  the  steps,  and  we  saluted  him,  and  he  made  us 
a  little  speech.  He  is  the  longest  man  you  ever  saw, 
— just  like  the  funny  drawings  of  him, — and  very 
absent-minded,  for  he  didn't  seem  to  pay  half  as  much 
attention  to  us  as  you  would  have  thought  he  would, 
after  all  our  trouble  in  getting  here,  and  of  course  we 


LETTERS  103 

are  not  very  comfortable,  sleeping  right  on  the  floor 
of  the  capitol,  without  even  beds.  We  are  to  be  here 
for  a  whole  month.  You  would  think  they  would 
have  taken  more  trouble  about  us. 

We  haven't  had  any  chance  to  fight  yet,  and  I 
suppose  you  think  that  is  hard  luck.  It  isn't  a  bit  like 
what  you  saw  when  we  marched  away  from  LaFayette 
Place,  with  every  one  making  a  great  fuss  over  us, 
and  cheering  so  we  couldn't  hear  the  band.  I  saw  you 
on  the  steps  of  the  Astor  Library,  and  wanted  like 
anything  to  run  over  and  say  good-by  again,  only,  of 
course,  there  was  discipline,  and  people  looking,  too. 
Of  course  it  was  all  right,  your  throwing  me  a  kiss 
like  that,  but  the  man  next  me  thought  you  meant  it 
for  him.  You  never  saw  anything  like  the  girls  all 
the  way  to  Jersey  City  Ferry,  and  I  think  you 
ought  to  be  more  careful.  They  were  half  of  them 
crying,  like  Fanny,  and  some  of  the  men  were,  too, 
even  though  you  didn't,  and  one  awfully  pretty  one 
threw  her  glove  at  me,  and  called  out  "Good  luck!" 
but  I  thought  about  you,  and  threw  it  back  again.  I 
do  love  you,  Ann,  but  I  wish  people  wouldn't  look  at 
you  so  in  the  street.  I  suppose  it  is  your  hair,  and 
you  can't  help  it,  but  even  after  I  had  my  uniform, 
they  paid  more  attention  to  you  than  they  did  to  me. 
Of  course  a  man  doesn't  want  the  girl  he  is  engaged 
to  to  look  conspicuous. 

No  one  slept  any  on  the  boat  going  to  Annapolis; 
we  all  sang  songs  like  Columbia,  Gem  of  the  Ocean, 
and  made  jokes,  and  wondered  if  any  more  men  had 
been  killed  in  Baltimore.  I  suppose  the  Boston  was  a 
good  enough  boat,  but  it  did  seem  awfully  slow,  when 
we  didn't  know  but  that  when  we  got  there  we  would 
find  that  the  rebels  had  taken  the  city.  You  can 
believe  we  were  glad  to  see  the  good  old  stars  and 


104  THE  CORTLANDTS 

stripes!  We  were  the  first  troops  to  occupy  Annap- 
olis, although  a  Massachusetts  regiment  came  along 
soon,  and  we  left  on  the  train  together.  They  are 
smart  men,  and  brave,  I  am  sure,  but  of  course  they 
are  not  gentlemen,  and  they  can  eat  anything.  Most 
of  the  food  wasn't  fit  to  swallow,  and  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know  what  we  should  have  done  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  lunch  boxes  our  men  of  the  Seventh  took 
with  them. 

I  must  tell  you  that  just  before  I  left  I  told  my 
mother  about  our  being  engaged,  and  she  was  pleased, 
all  right.  I  thought  she  might  mind  your  being  just 
a  Byrne,  and  me  being  a  Cortlandt,  but  she  didn't.  I 
think  it  is  very  broad-minded  of  her.  Don't  you? 
But  all  our  family  are  broad-minded,  of  course.  I 
don't  know  about  telling  Uncle  Hendricks.  It  might 
be  a  good  idea  to  get  it  over  while  I  am  away,  so  he 
can  get  used  to  the  idea, — but  we  don't  have  to  worry 
about  that.  Mother  will  do  whatever  is  best. 

Washington  is  a  nice  place.  Some  day  I  wish  we 
might  live  there. 

To-morrow  is  my  twentieth  birthday,  and  I  never 
remember  when  I  didn't  have  a  cake  before. 

Your  very  own, 

HENDRICKS. 

Ann  read  the  letter  once,  leaping  and  eager,  and 
then  again  more  broodingly,  with  lingering  attention 
to  the  endearments,  and  to  the  ending, — "your  very 
own  Hendricks."  What  an  odd  thing  to  own,  she 
thought  involuntarily, — to  own  as  she  did  the  string 
of  seed  pearls  her  guardian  had  given  her,  or  her 
blue  bonnet  L'Impcratricc,  just  out  from  Paris.  And 
he  had  written  "live  in  Washington,"  quite  casually, 


LETTERS  105 

like  that,  when  it  was  not  conceivable  that  she  should 
ever  live  anywhere  but  in  her  guardian's  house,  there 
in  her  straight  ordered  room,  with  its  unlittered  bureau, 
and  its  towering  walnut  bed.  Being  engaged,  she  felt, 
was  enough.  It  was  romantic,  but  it  was  sufficient. 

Hesitatingly  she  opened  her  little  writing  desk,  and 
prepared  to  answer  Hendricks'  masterpiece.  Ordi- 
narily she  wrote  with  fluency:  indeed,  her  drawback 
as  a  correspondent  had  hitherto  been  that  her  thoughts 
outran  her  pen,  and  were  lost  in  her  hurried,  impulsive 
handwriting  that  was  so  difficult  to  read,  but  to-day 
her  courage  was  gone,  vanquished  by  the  staggering 
consciousness  that  a  love-letter  was  expected  of  her. 
She  began  to  write  haltingly. 

DEAR  HENDRICKS — 

If  I  wrote  "dearest"  it  wouldn't  seem  as  if  it  were 
I  that  was  writing.  I  shall  save  it, — but  I  am  glad 
you  didn't. 

Your  letter  was  exciting.  It  is  more  fun  being  a 
man  thsn  a  girl. 

She  paused,  wondering  what  compensation  a  man 
could  have  for  never  being  called  pretty,  and  added: 

At  least,  sometimes  I  think  so. 

New  York  is  exciting  too,  just  now.  The  night 
after  you  left  there  was  a  big  mass  meeting  in  Union 
Square,  with  four  stands  for  speakers,  and  flags  and 
bands  and  things  all  about.  Uncle  spoke  from  one 
stand,  and  I  sat  beside  him  on  the  platform,  and  I 
am  afraid  you  might  have  thought  I  was  conspicuous, 


io6  THE  CORTLANDTS 

but  I  can't  help  my  horrid  hair.  There  was  an  enor- 
mous crowd  of  people,  and  to  sit  and  look  down  on 
all  those  solemn  faces,  turned  up  to  the  flaring  lights, 
made  prickly  feelings  run  up  and  down  your  spine. 
And  when  they  cheered,  it  was  just  all  you  could 
bear;  somehow  you  were  simply  wild  to  do  something, 
but  you  didn't  have  any  idea  what.  The  veterans 
from  the  War  of  1812  were  there,  in  their  uniforms, 
with  their  swords  buckled  on,  and  some  of  them  were 
lame,  or  had  only  one  arm,  and  when  they  marched 
by  I  cried  and  cried,  although  I  almost  never  do. 
Somehow  the  fact  that  we  are  at  war  makes  empty 
sleeves  horribly  tragic ! 

She  was  writing  easily  now,  and  enjoying  herself. 

Uncle  spoke  beautifully,  all  about  what  we  owe  to 
our  country,  and  they  raised  quite  a  large  sum  of 
money,  and  ever  so  many  men  volunteered.  Aren't 
you  glad  you  were  in  the  very  first  lot?  I  am. 

I  had  an  experience  coming  home, — not  much  of  a 
one.  Somehow  or  other  I  was  so  excited  that  I  ran 
on  ahead  of  uncle,  when  the  meeting  was  breaking  up, 
and  lost  him  in  the  crowd,  and  there  I  was,  with  the 
night  awfully  black  away  from  the  lights  on  the 
stands,  and, — oh,  millions  of  people  swarmed  about, 
singing  and  shouting, — yes,  and  swearing,  too,  some 
of  them.  For  a  minute  I  was  scared,  and  then  I 
thought  about  you,  and  I  knew  you  would  be  funny 
and  cross  if  you  could  see  me,  and  that  helped,  and 
then  a  rough-looking  man  took  hold  of  my  arm,  and 
said,  "Ain't  you  too  pretty  to  be  out  alone,  miss?" 
I  tried  to  wrench  myself  free,  and  couldn't,  so  I  just 
turned  and  looked  at  him,  and  after  a  minute  he 
stopped  laughing,  and  then  he  had  the  very  kindest 
face  you  ever  saw,  only  so  unhappy.  And  when  he 


LETTERS  107 

saw  that  I  was  really  frightened,  he  let  go  my  arm, 
and  I  said,  "I've  lost  my  uncle.  Would  it  be  very 
much  out  of  your  way  to  take  me  to  Washington 
Square?  I  have  never  been  out  alone  at  night,  be- 
fcre."  And  he  said  no,  he  wasn't  very  busy  just  then, 
and  he  was  the  fastest  walker  you  ever  saw;  in  a 
minute  we  were  clear  of  the  crowd,  and  just  streaking 
for  home.  He  seemed  very  queer  and  jerky,  almost 
as  if  he  were  embarrassed,  so  I  asked  him  all  about 
himself,  and  he  said  his  wife  was  dead,  and  that  he 
hadn't  any  family, — and  I  said  he  must  be  lonely,  and 
he  said  he  was  just  a  bad  lot.  Then  I  said,  "Isn't 
that  splendid?  You  can  volunteer  without  hurting 
any  one,  can't  you?"  And  he  laughed  a  little,  but  not 
as  if  he  thought  anything  was  funny,  and  just  before 
we  came  to  the  house  he  said, — "Well,  I'm  going," 
and  I  said  "Where?"  and  he  said,— "To  fight  the 
damned  Johnnies!  I  reckon  you  are  right, — goin'  to 
war  is  better  than  goin'  to  hell !"  It  was  the  first  time 
any  one  had  ever  said  "Damn,"  to  me, — right  out  like 
that, — and  do  you  know,  I  liked  it !  And  he  wouldn't 
come  in  and  let  uncle  thank  him,  and  he  never  said 
anything  else  at  all,  and  I  am  afraid  he  will  be  shot, 
and  it  will  be  all  my  fault. 

They  have  started  a  Union  Defense  Committee  that 
meets  every  day  in  the  new  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,  and 
uncle  is  never  at  home  any  more.  He  spends  all  his 
time  working  for  the  war,  and  I  am  sure  he  is  sorry 
he  is  not  young  enough  to  fight, — but  I  am  glad,  for 
uncle  is  different,  somehow. 

Your  mother  came  to  see  me,  and  kissed  me,  and 
told  me  a  great  many  things  about  you.  She  made 
me  feel  that  I  am  indeed  a  fortunate  girl.  I  think 
I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  do  feel  that.  I  haven't  told 
uncle,  because  somehow  I  am  sure  it  will  make  him  feel 


io8  THE  CORTLANDTS 

sad, — but  why  should  it?     Dear  me, — I  couldn't  wait 
to  grow  up,  and  now  I  almost  wish  I  hadn't. 

Your  father  is  sweet  to  me.  I  am  sure  he  will  like 
me.  Last  night  he  took  me  to  Niblo's  Gardens  to  see 
a  wonderful  man  named  Rarey  train  wild  horses. 
Your  father  said  I  should  learn  his  method,  so  that  I 
might  try  it  on  you!  But  truly  he  was  marvelous, 
and  it  is  no  wonder  that  all  the  kings  in  Europe  went 
to  see  him, — and  that  good  young  Prince  of  Wales. 

The  Battery  Park  is  all  full  of  soldiers'  tents,  and 
three  days  ago  one  hundred  ladies  met  in  the  New 
York  Hospital  for  Women,  to  organize  a  new  sort  of 
committee,  to  be  called  the  "Sanitary  Commission." 
.They  intend  to  teach  women  how  to  nurse  the  wounded 
men,  if  the  war  goes  on,  and  to  prepare  hospital  sup- 
plies, and  all  that  The  men  are  making  fun  of  it, 
because  they  think  it  is  too  big  an  idea  for  just  women 
to  carry  out,  but  I  think  women  are  a  whole  lot  smarter 
than  men  think  they  are!  Anyway,  Ann  Byrne  has 
been  put  to  work  in  New  York,  scraping  lint ! 

Joseph  is  knocking  at  the  door  to  tell  me  that  uncle 
wants  me. 

ANN. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  was  standing  at  the  window  of  his 
library,  looking  out  into  the  faintly  misted  green  of 
Washington  Square.  His  upright  figure  drooped;  he 
looked  old  and  discouraged. 

"What  is  it?"  Ann  cried  from  the  threshold.  "Has 
there  been  a  defeat  ?" 

Her  guardian  turned,  a  steady  melancholy  in  his 
deep  eyes.  "No,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  that.  .  .  « 
Is  this  true, — what  my  sister  tells  me?" 


LETTERS  109 

"What?" 

"That  you  are  engaged, — and  to  young  Hendricks  ?" 

"Yes,  uncle."  She  crossed  the  room  to  him  with 
lagging  feet.  "I — I  hated  to  tell  you.  ...  He 
wants  me  to  be  engaged  to  him." 

"Engaged?  So  soon!  And  young  Hendricks! 
Why?" 

"Well, — he  thinks  I  am — rather  nice." 

"Good  lord,  of  course  you  are  rather  nice !  Is  that 
all?" 

Ann  slid  her  hand  into  his.  "No,"  she  confessed 
confusedly.  "If  you  won't  laugh,  I'll  tell  you."  She 
put  her  fresh  lips  very  near  his  cheek,  and  murmured, 
"He  thinks  I  am — pretty!  He  really  does." 

Mr.  Cortlandt  took  her  by  her  slender  shoulders, 
and  looked  into  her  shamed  eyes.  "It  is  my  fault," 
he  said  heavily. 

"What  is  your  fault?" 

"You  are  in  love  with  him  for  that!  Pretty? 
...  I  have  brought  you  up  wrong,  Ann.  Instead  of 
trying  to  keep  you  unspoiled,  I  should  have  told  you 
each  morning  that  you  are  a  beautiful  creature!  I 
should  have  protected  you  in  that  way." 

"Do  you  mean  it,  uncle? — Am  I  really — like  that?" 

"My  dear,  you  really  are!" 

She  smiled  at  him  radiantly.  "Now  imagine !"  she 
said  quaintly.  "And  I  have  been  so  afraid  that 
Hendricks  would  wake  up!" 

"Do  you  love  him?" 

"I  think  so,  uncle.     ...     He  says  I  do." 


no  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"It  may  be  years  before  he  can  afford  to  marry. 
He  must  make  his  own  way." 

"There's  no  hurry,"  Ann  said  hastily,  and  then 
added  sweetly:  "Aren't  you  a  little  glad  to  have  me 
marry  into  your  family?" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  looked  deep  into  her  lifted  eyes,  "My 
dear  child,"  he  said  unbelievably,  "my  family  isn't 
good  enough  for  you."  And  he  kissed  her  smooth 
cheek,  and  sighed. 


CHAPTER  IX 

OUT  AND  IN 

THE  Seventh  Regiment  volunteered  for  one  month 
only;  in  five  weeks  it  was  back  again  in  New  York. 
Ann  was  enormously  glad  to  see  Hendricks,  but  she 
had  been  looking  forward  so  ecstatically  to  his  return 
that  when  he  appeared  she  was  possibly  a  trifle  dis- 
appointed. In  her  thoughts  she  had  endowed  him 
with  extraneous  charm,  and  looking  at  him  she  was 
conscious  of  a  sudden  sinking  of  her  spirit.  How- 
ever, Hendricks  put  a  uniformed  arm  about  her  waist 
and  kissed  her  rather  shyly,  and  with  the  humility  of 
his  caress  her  sense  of  unworthiness  came  flooding 
back.  Who  was  she,  she  marveled,  to  be  chosen  by  the 
family  hero  out  of  a  world  of  women?  She  made  him 
tell  her  all  about  his  brief  campaign.  They  spent  hours 
in  the  high  dim  library  talking  of  it,  and  Ann  glowed 
with  martial  excitement.  She  always  thought  of 
Hendricks  as  a  soldier,  ready,  at  the  call,  to  sacrifice 
his  life  for  his  country,  and  she  felt  that  it  was  only 
right  for  him  to  have  everything  he  might  want,  in- 
cluding her,  as  that  was  his  strange  wish.  She  was  ex- 
traordinarily supple  and  unselfish  with  him  in  these 
days,  but,  while  she  understood  that  the  Seventh  Regi- 
ment was  to  be  demobilized  immediately,  she  would  not 
frankly  face  the  fact  that  once  her  lover  was  mus- 
tered out,  he  would  be  merely  a  civilian  again.  When 

in 


H2  THE  CORTLANDTS 

he  came  in  one  day,  his  uniform  exchanged  for  a 
smartly  checked  coat  and  waistcoat  and  loose  snuff- 
colored  trousers,  she  looked  at  him  aghast,  and  turned 
in  his  arms  so  that  his  lips  pressed  her  hair  instead 
of  her  cheek. 

"How  queer  you  look,"  she  said  querulously. 

"It  is  good  to  get  out  of  that  uncomfortable  uni- 
form, I  can  tell  you,"  Hendricks  returned  indignantly. 

"Oh,  uncomfortable!" 

"You've  gone  crazy  about  uniforms  in  this  war, 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Ann!  Now  you 
listen  to  me.  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

She  looked  up  eagerly;  already  the  members  of  the 
Seventh  were  volunteering  into  other  regiments,  and 
she  thought  Hendricks  was  about  to  announce  that  he 
had  done  the  same  thing. 

"You  have  reenlisted  already!"  She  clasped  both 
her  hands  about  his  arm  and  lifted  an  adoring  face. 

"Don't  be  silly!  The  president  will  have  eighty- 
five  thousand  men  under  the  new  call;  let  them  take 
their  turn  at  it,  I  have  done  my  share." 

"But  those  men  are  enlisting  for  three  years,  Hen- 
dricks." 

"Yes, — or  the  duration  of  the  war,  Ann.  You'll 
see, — it  will  be  all  over  in  six  months."  The  girl's 
hands  dropped,  while  bleak  indifference  swept  into 
her  face.  Hendricks'  tone  was  defensive  as  he  added, 
"I've  got  a  position*  in  a  bank, — third  assistant  receiv- 
ing teller, — and  I  am  going  to  work  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. They  will  pay  me  sixty  dollars  a  month." 


OUT  AND  IN  113 

"Will  they?"  Her  tone  was  as  unconcerned  as  a 
mere  stranger's. 

"Well,  you  might  take  an  interest,  Ann!"  His 
voice  was  indignant,  but  he  put  a  timid  boyish  hand 
on  her  sleeve.  "That  is  seven  hundred  and  twenty 
dollars  a  year.  When  I'm  making  a  thousand  I  think, 
we  might  be  married." 

Ann  drew  her  arm  away  precipitately.  "Oh,  mar- 
ried!" she  said,  as  startled  as  though  the  idea  were 
entirely  new  to  her. 

"Plenty  of  people  live  on  that." 

"I  suppose  so.  ...  I  don't  know  much  about 
it,  Hendricks,  but  things  do  seem  expensive." 

"It  is  the  war,"  the  boy  said  importantly.  "When 
that  is  over  they'll  come  down  again." 

Ann  swept  out  the  wide  skirt  of  checked  silk  which 
she  was  wearing.  "Uncle  paid  six  dollars  a  yard  for 
this  material,"  she  said,  "and  my  new  black  velvet 
jacket  cost  one  hundred  twenty  dollars.  Shocking, 
isn't  it?" 

"Well,  I  should  think  you  could  give  up  silk  and 
velvet,  Ann,  to  marry  me." 

"Yes,  of  course  I  could.  •  .  .  .  But  I  can't  think 
about  it  with  the  war  still  going  on!  Really,  Hen- 
dricks, I  can't  take  an  interest  in  marrying  anybody 
while  we  are  fighting." 

And  this  was  a  fairly  accurate  description  of  her 
state  of  mind.  Her  imagination  was  entirely  caught 
by  the  great  drama  and  she  had  little  interest  in  self- 
centered  love-making. 


114  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Late  in  May  the  Union  Army  moved  on  Alexandria, 
where  the  Rebel  flag  flew  in  plain  sight  of  all  Wash- 
ington, and  in  the  successful  occupation,  Colonel  Ells- 
worth, the  leader  of  the  New  York  Fire  Zouaves,  was 
killed.  His  death  made  a  great  sensation  in  New 
York,  where  he  had  been  a  popular  figure,  and  as  a 
result,  there  was  a  great  rush  for  enlistment.  As  the 
summer  drew  on,  and  the  gravity  of  the  struggle  be- 
came evident,  the  crowd  of  young  men  about  the  offices 
in  Lafayette  Hall  daily  became  more  dense;  the 
ranks  of  recruiting  regiments  were  rapidly  filled. 
Each  regiment  had  its  separate  bivouac;  before  long 
the  outskirts  of  the  city  were  dotted  with  encamp- 
ments. Every  fair  afternoon  Mr.  Cortlandt  came 
home  early  in  order  to  ride  on  a  tour  of  inspection 
of  one  camp  or  another,  and  Ann,  somewhat  to 
Hendricks'  disquiet,  always  accompanied  him.  On  the 
boy's  first  free  day  he  went  with  them,  and  the  three 
of  them  rode  rather  silently,  for  three  is  a  poorer 
number  on  horseback  than  it  is  anywhere  else,  to  an 
encampment  on  Harlem  Heights,  where  tents  of  vari- 
ous types  were  scattered  prodigally  about,  and  men  in 
a  naive  conception  of  zouave  dress  loafed  in  front  of 
them. 

Ann  looked  well  on  horseback.  Her  waist,  in  her 
long  pointed  basque,  was  extraordinarily  slim,  and  her 
full  skirts  flowed  gracefully,  undulating  with  every 
movement  of  the  horse.  She  wore  a  small  black  hat 
with  a  feather  that  curled  down  over  her  chignon,  and 
she  carried  her  head  alertly,  looking  about  her  with 


OUT  AND  IN  115 

smiling  eyes.  Her  mare  was  high-spirited,  and  camps 
were  filled  with  things  she  distrusted, — eddying  bits 
of  paper  and  sudden  crashes  of  noise.  Ann,  her  knee 
curved  tight  to  the  pommel,  laughed  at  her  quick 
shies,  and  tickled  her  side  with  the  edge  of  her  heel, 
so  that  she  danced  protestingly,  but  the  soldiers  looked 
at  her  in  anxious  admiration;  they  straightened  up  as 
she  passed,  pulled  down  their  belts,  and  set  their  caps 
at  a  more  rakish  angle. 

"Ann,"  Hendricks  protested,  "I  think  you  are 
awfully  conspicuous." 

The  girl  flashed  a  quick  grin  at  him.  "Yes, — isn't 
5t  fun  ?"  she  said.  And  Mr.  Cortlandt  told  him  shortly 
not  to  be  absurd. 

As  soon  as  the  regiments  were  ready,  they  were  sent 
off  to  Virginia,  where  the  Federal  Army  was  advanc- 
ing slowly,  and  engaging  in  unimportant  clashes  with 
the  enemy.  The  North  was  eager  for  victories,  and 
hailed  the  taking  of  Fairfax  Court-House  as  an  im- 
portant event.  Great  crowds  hung  about  before  the 
newspaper  bulletin-boards,  following  the  movements 
of  the  New  York  troops  engaged  in  the  advance;  en- 
thusiasm was  in  the  air,  and  the  women  at  the  Sani- 
tary Commission  redoubled  their  efforts.  Ann  scraped 
so  much  lint  in  a  day  that  she  was,  herself,  amazed. 

In  July,  in  an  engagement  at  Manassas  Junction, 
there  came  the  first  death  in  the  war  of  any  one  Ann 
had  known.  Young  Philip  Vanderdyken,  with  whom 
she  had  danced  at  her  debut,  was  shot  and  buried  on 
the  field.  This  brought  the  tragic  thing  close ;  she  was 


u6  THE  CORTLANDTS 

greatly  shocked,  and  for  a  time  she  seemed  almost  to 
have  transferred  to  him  her  feeling  for  her  lover. 
Hendricks  and  his  bookkeeping  seemed  incredibly 
remote. 

The  boy  dropped  into  the  Washington  Square  house 
one  hot  afternoon  when  his  work  was  over  and  found 
only  his  cousin  Fanny.  Mr.  Cortlandt's  darkened  li- 
brary was  gratifyingly  refreshing,  and  as  he  sank  into 
the  most  comfortable  chair,  he  allowed  himself  the 
luxury  of  complaint. 

"Where  is  Ann?"  he  demanded  accusingly. 

Fanny  flushed  sensitively  as  she  answered  that  she 
did  not  know,  and,  murmuring  something  about  the 
heat,  she  hurried  off  to  make  him  some  iced  lemonade. 
He  drank  it  with  a  delightful  sense  of  being  ministered 
to,  which,  curiously  enough,  increased  his  resentment 
toward  Ann. 

"She  knew  I  was  coming  to-day,"  he  said,  darkly 
irascible. 

Now  and  then  he  would  get  up  from  his  seat,  stalk 
over  to  the  window,  and  open  the  shutter  so  that  he 
might  look  out.  Every  time  he  did  so,  the  sun  leaped 
fiercely  in,  shattering  the  illusion  of  coolness,  and 
when  he  had  again  thrown  himself  into  his  chair, 
Fanny  would,  after  an  uneasy  interval,  steal  across 
the  room  and  close  the  shutter  gently  so  that  Hendricks 
should  not  notice  it.  She  cast  an  apprehensive  glance 
at  him,  each  time. 

"I  can't  think  where  she  can  be,"  she  murmured 
sympathetically,  again  and  again. 


OUT  AND  IN  117 

The  outer  door  opened,  and  there  was  a  murmur  of 
a  girl's  clear  voice  in  greeting.  Old  Joseph's  footsteps 
receded,  but  still  the  culprit  did  not  appear ;  there  was 
something  reluctant  in  her  delay.  It  was  a  good  min- 
ute before  her  slim  figure  and  wide  crinoline  was 
brilliantly  outlined  against  the  gloom  of  the  doorway. 
She  was  apparently  unaware  of  the  disapproval  she 
faced,  for  she  smiled  impersonally  at  the  two  cousins. 
"Hello,"  she  said.  Nodding  her  head  at  Hendricks, 
she  crossed  over  to  the  piano,  and  seated  herself  before 
it.  "I  heard  a  new  song  to-day."  She  was  pulling 
the  gloves  off  her  warm  white  hands,  with  a  flirt  of 
the  crisp  ruffles  at  her  wrists. 

"What  is  it  ?"  Hendricks  glanced  uneasily  at  Fanny 
for  verification  of  his  impression  of  Ann's  indifference. 

Ann  struck  a  martial  chord,  and  then  began  to  play, 
brilliantly,  the  simple  tune  of  Yankee  Doodle.  She 
ran  through  it  once,  before  she  took  up  the  words. 

"Yankee  Doodle  is  the  song 
Americans  delight  in. 
Good  to  whistle,  dance  or  sing 
And  just  the  thing  for  fightin' !" 

She  broke  off,  and  left  the  piano  abruptly.     "Want 
to  whistle,  Hendricks?"  she  inquired  innocently,  as  she 
went  to  investigate  the  lemonade  pitcher. 
"Where  have  you  been?     It  is  six  o'clock." 
"The  Twenty-Fourth  Infantry  marched  away  to- 
day," Ann  observed  impersonally.     There  was  noth- 
ing to  show  that  this  fact  had  constituted  the  proverbial 
last  straw  on  the  load  of  her  endurance. 


ii8  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"I  know,"  Fanny  said  placidly,  "we  had  hard  work 
to  get  their  havelocks  finished  in  time.  Even  Ann 
worked  on  them,"  she  added  brightly,  in  an  effort  to 
lighten  Hendricks'  gloom. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that,"  Hendricks  said,  in  heavy 
approbation. 

"You  don't  know  what  else  I  did,"  Ann  said  de- 
fiantly. She  was  unreasonably  irritated  at  the  sight 
of  Hendricks'  lounging  in  his  uncle's  most  comfortable 
chair,  lemonade  in  hand. 

Fanny  interposed  nervously,  miserable  in  the  face 
of  a  situation  that  was  becoming  strained.  "You 
worked  all  the  morning." 

"Oh,  yes, — I  worked.  ...  I  can  work  much 
faster  than  you,  Fanny,  when  I  try.  ...  I  fin- 
ished ever  so  many  havelocks,  and, — I  put  a  note  in 
the  last  one." 

Hendricks  bounced  from  his  chair,  his  face  crimson 
with  indignation.  "You  did  what?"  he  stormed. 

Ann  tilted  the  empty  lemonade  pitcher  regretfully. 
"Pigs,"  she  said  reproachfully. 

"Oh,  Ann!"  Fanny  murmured,  deeply  shocked. 
At  the  fashionable  gatherings  where  she  sewed  for  the 
soldiers  it  was  whispered  that  notes  were  things  in- 
dulged in  by  "vulgar  girls, — girls  from  the  country." 
'She  would  have  suffered  torments  before  she  would 
have  so  betrayed  her  caste. 

"What  made  you  do  a  thing  like  that?  What  did 
you  say?"  the  young  man  demanded* fiercely. 

"Oh,  I  said  I  hoped  my  havelock  would  keep  him 


OUT  AND  IN  119 

safe  from  harm.     .     .     .     And  that  I  hoped  he  would 
kill  ever  so  many  Rebels." 

"Did  you  sign  your  name?"  Fanny  inquired,  awe- 
struck. 

"I  just  wrote  Ann," 

"Your  first  name, — to  a  stranger?" 

"He  didn't  seem  like  a  stranger.  .  .  .  When  I 
saw  them  marching  away  I  would  have  given  anything 
to  know  which  one  had  it." 

"When  you  saw  them  marching  away,"  repeated 
Hendricks  in  a  voice  of  doom.  "Did  you  go  over  to 
Broadway  to  see  them  ?" 

"I  did." 

"With  uncle?" 

"No." 

"Alone  in  all  that  crowd?" 

The  girl's  impatience  flared  out.  "Oh,  what  dif- 
ference does  it  make?  .  .  .  They  marched  down 
the  street  singing  John  Brown's  Body  .  .  .  and 
all  the  flags  were  hanging  out  .  .  .  and  every  one 
was  shouting!  ...  I  saw  a  woman  crying  be- 
cause her  husband  had  gone.  .  .  .  And  I  shouted, 
too,  and  waved  my  handkerchief;  I  wouldn't  have 
cried, — not  even  if  uncle  had  gone.  .  .  .  All 
around  me  men  were  shouting  'On  to  Richmond !' ' 
She  drew  a  passionate  breath,  and  pressed  her  hands 
tightly  against  her  breast.  "And  there  you  were, 
Hendricks,  making  money.  Money !"  She  threw  her 
hands  out  in  a  gesture  of  desperation.  "You  never 
seem  to  think  of  the  war  at  all, — and  I  can't  get  away 


120  THE  CORTLANDTS 

from  it  for  a  minute!  .  .  .  You  know,  Fanny, 
every  morning,  on  our  way  to  the  Sanitary  Commis- 
sion we  go  through  all  that  crowd  at  the  recruiting 
office, — young  men  wild  to  go, — and  you  have  only 
to  pass  the  armory  any  time  all  day  long,  to  see  soldiers 
drilling  there.  ...  I  can't  think  of  anything  else; 
it  seems  all  the  time  as  if  marches  were  beating  in  my 
head!" 

"Ann,  I  don't  think  the  neighborhood  of  the  armory 
these  days  is  any  place  for  a  young  lady,"  Hendricks 
said  stiffly.  "And  if  you  will  take  five  minutes  longer 
to  get  to  the  Sanitary  Commission  rooms  you  can  go 
the  other  way  and  avoid  all  that  rabble  at  the  recruiting 
office." 

"That  is  what  I  tell  her, — "  Fanny  murmured 
feebly,  but  Ann  swept  on. 

"You  think  all  those  things  are  important, — you 
two!  What  difference  does  it  make  what  I  do, — 
when  there  is  a  battle  going  on — now?  At  noon  I 
stopped  before  the  bulletin-board  at  The  Tribune 
office,  and  that  is  what  it  said, — now!  This  very 
minute!  At  Bull  Run.  Men  dying!  And  we  sit 
here!" 

Hendricks  smiled  at  her  with  affectionate  toler- 
ance. "There  are  at  least  sixty  thousand  men  in 
Washington,"  he  said  soothingly.  "General  Scott  can 
handle  it,  all  right.  We  are  sure  to  win." 

He  was  cut  short  by  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet  and 
the  confusion  of  a  sudden  stop  before  the  house.  Ann 
leaped  to  the  window  to  look. 


OUT  AND  IN  121 

"It's  uncle!"  she  cried.  "Something  must  have 
happened  1"  She  ran  out  to  meet  him,  leaving  Fanny 
white- faced  and  tremulous.  It  was  only  a  moment 
before  she  returned,  with  her  arm  through  Mr.  Cort- 
lanclt's,  half  supporting  him. 

"What  is  it?"  gasped  Fanny,  frightened. 

"Defeat!"  Ann  flung  at  Hendricks,  and  she  faced 
him  with  blazing  eyes. 

"A  rout,"  her  guardian  supplemented,  "a  shameful 
rout!  .  .  .  Five  hundred  men  lost!" 

"Oh !"  cried  Fanny,  unheeded  tears  running  over  her 
cheeks,  "the  Fire  Zouaves!"  The  casualty  in  New 
York's  picturesque  heroes  brought  the  thing  terribly 
close. 

"Scott  should  never  have  yielded  to  the  demand 
for  a  decisive  engagement.  .  .  .  He  hadn't 
enough  discipline." 

"Or  enough  reserves,  uncle!"  Ann  turned  a  scorn- 
ful glance  on  Hendricks. 

"I  suppose  you  want  me  to  reenlist?"  he  demanded 
truculently. 

"Ann,  how  can  you?"  Fanny  protested,  futilely, 
sheer  terror  in  her  unnoticed  face,  while  Mr.  Cortlandt 
laid  a  restraining  hand  on  Ann's  arm. 

"I  want  to  go,  all  right,"  the  boy  said.  "You  know 
that,  don't  you,  Uncle  Hendricks?  Do  you  think  I 
.should?" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  was  silent  for  a  moment;  he  entirely 
disregarded  the  impatient  little  pushes  Ann  gave  him 
from  time  to  time.  "Hendricks,"  he  said,  at  length, 


[THE  CORTL'ANDTS 

"I  hate  to  have  you  go — God  knows,  to-night  we  know 
what  may  happen, — but  the  country  needs  the  young 
men." 

Suddenly  Ann  melted.  She  clung  to  Hendricks  as 
she  had  never  done,  and  lifted  an  ardent  face  to  his. 
"Oh,  Hendricks, — dear,  dear  Hendricks!"  She  could 
feel  his  resolution  in  the  big  breath  he  drew. 

The  old  man  watched  them  sadly.  "When  you 
come  home,  you  will  be  in  a  position  to  marry,  Hen- 
dricks. ...  I  will  do  better  by  you  than  the 
bank." 

"When  you  come  home,  Hendricks, — when  the 
Rebels  are  all  beaten, — I'll  marry  you  if  you  haven't  a 
cent!" 

"Well,"  he  said  gloomily,  although  his  arm  tightened 
about  Ann,  "that  settles  it." 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  undeterred  by  the  presence  of  her 
guardian  and  Fanny,  "I  love  you,  Hendricks!  I  do 
love  you,  after  all!" 


CHAPTER  X 

SERIOUS  BUSINESS 

HAVING  made  up  his  mind,  Hendricks  Renneslyer 
lost  no  time  in  severing  his  connection  with  the  bank, 
and  the  next  day,  while  Ann  was  only  beginning  to 
taste  the  joy  of  having  bent  him  to  her  will,  he  an- 
nounced that  he  had  joined  the  Fifty-Fifth  New  York 
Volunteers.  A  week  later  he  was  under  canvas  on 
Staten  Island,  endeavoring  to  absorb  sufficient  informa- 
tion in  regard  to  drills  and  maneuvers  to  enable  him 
to  perform  his  duties  as  second  lieutenant  with  some 
likelihood  of  success. 

It  was  a  polyglot  assortment  of  men  he  enrolled 
himself  among.  The  Fifty-Fifth  was  originally  a 
French  Militia  Regiment,  known  as  the  "Guarde  La- 
fayette," with  a  peace  footing  of  about  three  hundred, 
whose  duty  it  had  been  to  parade,  in  the  picturesque 
red  of  the  Zouave  Corps,  in  Fourth  of  July  celebra- 
tions, and  at  funerals.  When  the  regiment  volun- 
teered for  the  war  the  ranks  were  filled,  in  a  hit  or 
miss  fashion,  with  rough  young  Irishmen  from  the 
lower  wards,  Germans  from  their  adopted  firesides, 
and  Americans  who  had  not  gone  out  in  the  first  rush 
of  enlisting.  Three  months  after  the  war  began,  it 
was  no  longer  an  easy  task  to  complete  a  regiment; 
already  the  crowd  around  Lafayette  Hall,  where  the 
recruiting  was  carried  on,  was  scattered,  but  the  hour 

123 


124  THE  CORTLANDTS 

of  the  mercenary  was  not  yet  come,  and  the  Fifty-Fifth 
was  filled  by  unbought  volunteers.  It  took  four  weeks 
to  secure  them,  but  it  was  done. 

The  officers  were  largely  exiles  'from  France,  whose 
military  experience  was  far  greater  than  that  of  the 
average  American  officer.  Hendricks  was  given  a  com- 
mission as  a  matter  of  course,  owing  to  his  brief  con- 
nection with  the  illustrious  Seventh,  whose  members 
were  leading  half  the  companies  that  left  New  York. 
He  was  greatly  bewildered  by  his  new  duties,  for  his 
month's  service  had  not,  after  all,  taught  him  much, 
but  he  managed  to  pick  up  some  useful  information 
from  a  soldier  in  his  company  who  had  served  in 
Africa  and  the  Crimea,  and  when  the  Fifty-Fifth  was 
ready  to  march,  he  had  a  fair  parade  ground  idea  of 
his  duties. 

Ann  exulted  in  his  importance.  She  was  always 
begging  her  guardian  to  take  her  across  the  bay  to 
see  him  drill  with  his  men,  and  she  thought  about  him 
constantly.  When  the  sun  shone  hot  she  wondered 
if  he  were  drilling  on  the  open  parade  ground,  and 
when  it  rained  in  the  night  she  could  not  sleep,  because 
she  was  certain  his  tent  must  leak.  This,  she  decided, 
with  a  vivid  sense  of  relief,  was  love.  It  was,  indeed, 
as  near  it  as  she  had  come. 

Hendricks'  second  military  departure  was  strangely 
different  from  his  first.  It  was  only  four  months 
since  the  Seventh  Regiment  had  marched  away,  in  a 
jubilee  of  adulation,  but  in  that  time  war  had  become 
an  ominous  thing.  When  the  Fifty-Fifth  broke  camp. 


SERIOUS  BUSINESS  125 

and  started  for  the  front,  Ann  had  no  exultant  thrill. 
As  she  stood  beside  her  guardian,  overlooking  the 
double  line  of  marching  men,  their  opera  bouffe  uni- 
forms bright  in  the  hot  August  sunlight,  she  found 
to  her  amazement  that  her  breath  caught  in  her  throat 
in  something  very  like  a  sob.  She  stole  a  guilty  glance 
at  Mr.  Cortlandt,  and  saw  that  his  eyes,  too,  were 
rilled  with  tears.  An  officer  rode  by  with  the  flag  of 
the  regiment,  and  a  roar  of  hurrahs  drowned  out  the 
insistent  drums. 

Ann  seized  Mr.  Cortlandt's  arm.  "Uncle,"  she 
gasped,  "I  don't  want  them  to  go !"  She  had  a  sudden 
clear  vision  of  young  Philip  Vanderdyken,  lying  shot 
through  the  head  on  the  field  of  battle.  She  was  all 
at  once  fearful  that  she  might  never  see  Hendricks 
again. 

At  the  train  she  puzzled  him  by  her  inarticulate 
depression.  She  clung  to  him  desperately,  so  that  he 
was  embarrassed  at  such  public  demonstration,  and 
she  did  not  smile  nor  wave  her  hand  as  the  train 
drew  away ;  she  only  looked  at  him,  profoundly. 

Back  in  Washington  Square  Mrs.  William  Cort- 
landt was  awaiting  them. 

"Hendricks,"  she  said  at  once,  "I  have  come  for 
some  money." 

"Sanitary  Commission  again?"  Mr.  Cortlandt 
asked,  smiling.  Ann  knew  that  he  liked  his  sister-in- 
law  better  than  he  ever  had  before,  now  that  she  was 
devoting  herself  to  war  work,  and  indeed,  the  girl  did 
too. 


126  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"No, — this  time  it  is  for  an  Army  Hospital." 

Ann  drew  nearer,  fascinated.  There  was  talk  of 
opening  a  hospital  for  soldiers  in  New  York,  and  she 
found  the  prospect  infinitely  exciting. 

"Has  it  been  decided  to  equip  one?"  Mr.  Cort- 
landt  asked. 

"Yes.  .We  expect  to  take  care  of  the  boys  from 
near-by  camps, — there  are  many  ill  with  fever,  you 
know, — and,  of  course,  there  is  even  a  possibility  of 
our  getting  some  of  the  wounded,  if  the  war  goes  on 
through  the  winter." 

"Oh!"  cried  Ann  rapturously.  "How  wonderful!" 
No  one  paid  any  attention  to  her,  however. 

"Hendricks, — I  don't  know  what  you  will  think. 
,  .  .  When  we  get  the  hospital  ready, — I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  nurse  in  it."  Mrs.  William 
looked  as  frightened  as  a  daring  little  girl. 

Ann's  eyes  widened.  To  nurse!  To  bathe  brows, 
and  to  moisten  fevered  lips;  to  read  poetry,  and  to 
place  flowers  by  sick  beds!  That  was  life.  She,  too, 
would  be  a  nurse! 

"It  is  a  new  work  for  gentlewomen,"  her  guardian 
said  doubtfully. 

"Yes, — but  so  are  hardships  of  campaigning  new 
work  for  gentlemen!" 

It  amazed  Ann  to  hear  Fanny's  conservative  mother 
championing  something  her  guardian  thought  uncon- 
ventional, and  she  flung  herself  into  the  talk,  eager 
to  help  her.  "It's  the  next  best  thing  to  fighting,  to 


SERIOUS  BUSINESS  127 

be  a  nurse,  uncle!"  she  declared.  "And  when  the 
hospital  is  opened  I  shall  work  there,  too." 

Mrs.  William  turned  on  her,  ingratitude  in  every 
line  of  her  plump  figure.  "Indeed  you  shan't,  miss!" 
she  cried.  "What  an  idea!  A  young  girl!" 

"Well,  young  men  are  fighting !"  The  girl  appealed 
to  her  guardian.  "Uncle, — I  may, — mayn't  I  ?" 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling.  She  could  see  that  he 
did  not  take  her  request  seriously.  "Hendricks 
wouldn't  like  it,  I  am  sure,"  he  chaffed,  and  she  felt 
herself  flushing  up,  sharply. 

"La !  I  should  think  he  wouldn't !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
William,  and  swept  on  with  her  plans  for  transforming 
a  dwelling  house  into  a  hospital.  The  subject  of  Ann's 
participation  appeared  to  be  disposed  of,  but  the  girl 
knew  better.  As  she  sat  silently  by,  absently  taking 
in  the  conversation,  she  was  quite  determined  as  to 
one  thing;  when  the  hospital  was  opened  she  would 
work  in  it,  no  matter  what  opposition  she  overcame. 
She  watched  Mr.  Cortlandt  draw  a  generous  check, 
with  exultation;  it  brought  her  opportunity  so  much 
the  nearer. 

Letters  came  through  promptly  from  Hendricks.  He 
wrote  that  Washington  was  greatly  changed  in  the 
two  months  he  had  been  in  New  York.  "We  spent 
our  first  night  in  a  big  barracks  just  across  from  the 
station,  which  has  been  built  since  I  was  here.  It 
was  as  bare  as  an  empty  barn,  and  we  could  smell  the 
new  pine  wood.  We  slept  right  on  the  bare  floor, 


128  THE  CORTLANDTS 

and  I  never  knew  before  I  had  so  many  hips  and 
elbows.  ...  In  the  morning  we  were  awakened 
early  by, — what  do  you  think?  Rebel  guns!  The 
Frenchmen  who  had  seen  service  abroad  jumped  up 
crying  'Mon  Dieu!  C'est  le  feu!'  and  you  could  hear 
our  fellows  taking  it  up.  'It's  cannon/  But  they 
weren't  firing  at  us,  so  we  had  breakfast." 

Apparently  the  Fifty-Fifth,  trained  by  experienced 
men,  had  made  a  good  impression  in  Washington,  for 
the  crowd  had  cheered  as  it  marched  up  Pennsylvania 
Avenue,  and  marveled  at  the  spectacle  of  new  troops 
already  familiar  with  the  rudiments  of  drilling.    Hen- 
dricks'  first  letters  concerned  themselves  mainly  with 
complaints  of  the  confusion  existing  in  the  Commissary 
and    Quartermaster    Departments;    the    men    of    the 
Fifty-Fifth  were  left  for  twenty-four  hours  in  their 
new  encampments  without  rations,  tents,  or  wood  for 
fires,   and   their  lieutenant  was  justifiably  indignant. 
"It  was  warm  weather  and  no  rain,  so  it  didn't  hurt 
the  men  to  sleep  out,  and  those  of  us  who  had  brought 
food  shared  it,  and  we  got  along  all  right,  but  things 
are  in  bad  shape  down  here.     .     .     .     Our  officers 
are  very  strict  with  us  and  we  drill  six  hours  a  day, 
rain  or  shine,  but  the  other  regiments  are  not  half 
so  hard  worked,  and  a  good  many  of  the  officers  are 
no  good.    The  one  camping  next  to  ours  is  commanded 
by  a  politician  from  Pittsburgh,  a  big  fat  man  and 
very  jolly,  who  drills  under  an  umbrella  when  it  rains, 
and  there  is  a  Wisconsin  regiment  here  whose  colonel 
conducts  platoon  drill  with  his  book  in  his  hand  because 


SERIOUS  BUSINESS  129 

he  doesn't  know  the  commands.  A  lot  of  men  have 
been  made  officers  because  they  gave  money  for  boun- 
ties to  recruit  their  companies;  they  really  know  less 
about  their  work  than  some  of  our  privates  do,  and 
of  course  all  this  is  very  bad  for  discipline.  Men  don't 
like  it;  we  are  too  near  the  enemy;  often  we  drill 
to  the  sound  of  their  artillery. 

"A  funny  thing  happened  last  night  It  was  our 
major's  turn  to  command  the  Grand  Guard  of  the 
Brigade,  and  he  sent  me,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
to  make  the  rounds  of  the  camps.  My  men  and  1 
went  into  twelve  of  them  without  being  stopped,  or 
even  challenged.  We  walked  around  freely  every- 
where, and  in  one  regiment  we  found  seven  sentinels 
asleep,  rolled  up  in  their  blankets.  At  last  we  went 
right  into  the  tent  belonging  to  the  colonel  of  an 
Indiana  regiment.  It  wasn't  guarded  or  anything,  and 
we  carried  off  the  flag  of  the  regiment,  which  was 
sent  the  next  day  to  General  Peck,  to  be  returned  with 
a  reprimand.  Our  officers  call  men  like  that  'paste- 
board colonels.' 

"We  are  camped  in  the  woods  on  the  bank  of  a 
rapid  little  stream  named,  very  appropriately,  Rock 
Creek ;  it  is  a  very  pretty  place.  There  are  steep  ravines 
all  about  us,  and  little  waterfalls  in  the  river.  From 
the  field  where  we  drill  we  can  see  miles  of  farm- 
land, all  dotted,  near  at  hand,  with  the  white  tents 
of  the  army." 

Ann  read  this  letter  aloud  to  her  guardian  and  he 
was  greatly  pleased  with  it. 


I3o  THE  CORTLXNDTS 

"It  is  making  a  man  of  Hendricks,"  he  said  exult- 
antly. "Is  there  anything  more?" 

"Yes,"  the  girl  answered,  "there  is  a  post-script. 
He  says,  'Make  Uncle  Hendricks  bring  you  over  to 
Washington  to  see  us/  ' 

"Well,  my  dear,  perhaps  I  shall,  one  of  these  days." 
It  seemed  to  Ann  that  she  could  not  possibly  wait. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOSPITALS 

THE  first  Army  Hospital  in  New  York  was  no 
sooner  opened  than  the  need  for  it  was  evident;  the 
camps  were  fever  ridden,  and  a  score  of  men  was  sent 
in  on  the  opening  day.  Indeed,  the  reputation  it  estab- 
lished was  of  so  high  a  character  that  doctors  with  the 
army  spoke  enviously  of  it,  and  in  spite  of  its  remote- 
ness from  the  front,  the  fact  that  it  was  actually  ready, 
with  a  staff  of  nurses  and  doctors  waiting  for  pa- 
tients, made  the  War  Department  decide  to  use  it. 
The  men  came,  exhausted  from  their  wounds  and  the 
journey,  and  Mrs.  William  Cortlandt,  who  proved  to 
be  an  excellent  nurse,  brought  home  tearful  tales  of 
heroic  and  suffering  youth  to  which  Ann  listened  with 
shining  eyes.  Romance  hovered  over  the  commonplace 
building  that  housed  the  wounded,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  the  girl  suggested  that  she  might  be  allowed  to 
serve  as  Mrs.  William's  assistant.  This  seemed  to  her 
to  be  a  position  sufficiently  chaperoned  to  be  acceptable, 
but  Mrs.  Renneslyer  told  her  plainly  that  she  consid- 
ered it  highly  improper  for  Hendricks*  future  wife  to 
consider  doing  any  such  thing,  and  his  father  pinched 
her  cheek,  saying  facetiously  that  the  sight  of  her 
would  never  reduce  a  sick  man's  fever.  Even  Mr. 
Cortlandt  irrelevantly  conversed  with  her  on  the  im- 


I32  THE  CORTLANDTS 

portance  of  conservative  behavior,  and  Mrs.  William 
said,  flatly,  that  she  wouldn't  undertake  the  responsi- 
bility of  having  a  young  girl  about. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  overcome  this  concerted 
opposition,  but  she  said  rebelliously  to  Fanny,  "I  wish 
I  was  old.  I  wish  I  was  twenty-five!  Then  I  could 
do  anything  I  liked.  And  I  will  anyway, — you'll  see ! 
Some  day  I'll  get  my  chance." 

About  a  fortnight  after  Hendricks'  departure,  her 
opportunity  came.  She  was  working  at  the  Sanitary 
Commission,  when  a  call  came  from  the  hospital  for 
more  bedding. 

"Let  me  take  it  down,"  she  volunteered  eagerly. 
"I  can  have  the  carriage  here  in  ten  minutes." 

They  piled  the  seats  high,  but  at  the  hospital  it  was 
all  quickly  unpacked,  and  Ann  had  no  excuse  to  linger, 
fascinated,  in  the  yawning  doorway.  In  no  time  at  all 
she  was  on  her  way  back,  lost  in  gloomy  disappoint- 
ment, when  suddenly,  while  crossing  a  street,  the 
horses  shied  violently  to  one  side.  Ann  roused  her- 
self bewilderedly,  and  looked  hurriedly  about  her. 
A  man  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road  close 
beside  her;  he  swayed  toward  her  as  she  passed,  so 
that  for  an  unpleasant  instant  she  feared  that  he  would 
be  caught  by  the  carriage.  She  thought  that  he  must 
be  drunk,  and  she  looked  back  curiously.  He  lay,  a 
crumpled  blue  heap,  in  the  roadway.  He  was  a  soldier ! 
In  a  moment  she  was  kneeling  beside  him,  turning  his 
pallid  face  toward  her,  with  hands  that  trembled. 

"Oh,   what  is  it?"   she  cried.   "Did  we  run  you 


HOSPITALS  133 

down  ?"  Her  colored  driver  made  frantic  gestures  and 
inarticulate  sounds  to  indicate  that  they  had  not,  but 
she  paid  no  attention  to  him. 

The  soldier  looked  gravely  at  her.  He  did  not 
seem  to  notice  that  he  lay  unconventionally  in  a  dusty 
roadway,  or  that  a  beautiful  young  woman  knelt, 
agonized,  beside  him.  "No,  ma'am,"  he  said  gravely. 
"It's  just  that  I  am  a  little  weak.  .  .  .  At  the 
ferry  there  were  so  many  of  us  hospital  cases, — they 
thought  I  might  walk." 

"Oh!"  Ann  cried,  rapture  in  her  voice.  "Are  you 
wounded?" 

"No,  ma'am.  I'm  just  sick.  .  .  .  Light  case 
of  typhoid,  doctor  said." 

"I  see."  At  that  period  of  the  war  typhoid  had 
not  yet  proved  itself  to  a  be  a  greater  foe  to  the 
soldier  even  than  shot  or  steel,  and  Ann's  tone  was 
relieved.  "You  can't  go  on  lying  here,  you  know. 
Where  were  you  going?  I'll  drive  you  there,"  She 
signaled  to  her  coachman  to  come  to  help  him  get 
up. 

He  closed  his  eyes  wearily.  "Hospital,"  he  said 
weakly. 

"Oh,"  Ann  pleaded,  "don't  faint!  Please  don't 
faint!" 

"I  won't,"  the  soldier  promised,  and  kept  his  word, 
even  when  the  coachman  hauled  him  up  into  the  open 
carriage,  while  Ann  stood  at  the  horses'  heads  to  keep 
them  perfectly  quiet.  He  was,  however,  alarmingly 
white  as  he  lay  back  against  the  cushions.  Ann  longed 


134  THE  CORTLANDTS 

to  ask  him  a  hundred  questions,  but  when  they  started 
he  lurched  helplessly  against  her,  and  instead  she  put  a 
hesitating  arm  about  him.  He  slumped  down  on  her 
shoulder,  and  they  drove  in  this  fashion  back  to  the 
hospital,  under  the  thick  green  arch  of  the  summer 
trees.  Ann  felt  amazingly  self-conscious;  she  knew 
that  it  was  unworthy  of  her,  but  she  couldn't  help  it, 
and  in  spite  of  it  she  enjoyed  herself.  This  was  war 
as  she  had  dreamed  it ;  a  helpless  soldier  wounded, — or, 
if  not  actually  wounded,  at  least  ill, — and  dependent 
upon  her.  ...  It  was  all  too  soon  when  the  hospi- 
tal was  reached,  and  her  patient  roused  himself. 

"I'll  see  if  they  have  a  stretcher,  and  can  carry  you 
in,"  Ann  volunteered. 

"No.  .  .  .  I'll  walk.  ...  I  feel  better 
after  my  ride."  And  he  was  better;  he  managed  to 
descend,  with  only  Ann's  eager  help,  but  he  clung 
gratefully  to  the  gate-post  when  he  reached  it.  He 
looked  wistfully  up  the  walk  that  led  to  the  door. 
"I'll  never  make  it,"  he  said  childishly.  "But  don't 
leave  me,  will  you?" 

Ann's  eyes  filled  with  unexpected  tears.  "Never," 
she  promised.  She  held  him  up  manfully.  She  wished 
that  he  were  a  little  boy,  so  that  she  might  gather 
him  up  in  her  arms,  tuck  his  head  comfortably  down 
on  her  shoulder  and  carry  him,  but  instead  she  half 
led,  half  dragged  him  up  the  walk.  She  was  amazed 
at  his  weight  and  horribly  afraid  she  couldn't  manage 
to  get  him  safely  inside  the  hospital.  The  flight  of 
steps  before  the  door  seemed  to  her  impossible. 


HOSPITALS  135 

An  orderly  looked  out  of  the  open  doorway.  "John !" 
he  bawled,  as  he  sprang  forward.  He  brushed  Ann 
aside  as  though  she  were  the  merest  incident  in  the  res- 
cue of  her  sick  soldier.  He  took  one  of  the  man's  hands, 
and  pulled  his  arm  around  his  neck,  jerking  him  away 
from  her,  so  that  the  blue-clad  body  sagged  against 
him  heavily,  and  the  soldier  moaned  a  little.  Ann 
sprang  to  his  other  side,  but  almost  immediately  John 
appeared.  He  was  a  nurse, — Ann  could  tell  that,  be- 
cause his  apron  was  bloody  from  the  operating-room, 
• — but  his  technique  was  the  same  as  the  orderly's,  for 
he,  too,  ignored  Ann.  He  put  a  capable  arm  around 
her  soldier,  and  between  them  the  two  men  hustled 
him  up  the  steps,  and  through  the  open  doorway.  Ann 
followed  forlornly;  she  felt  very  superfluous.  In  the 
hall  she  paused,  but  not  one  of  the  three  looked  back, 
or  apparently  thought  of  her  again. 

"Well,"  she  murmured.  "Well !"  She  was  possessed 
by  a  feeling  of  extraordinary  flatness,  and  she  was 
hurt,  too,  which  she  knew  was  unreasonable  of  her. 
The  hall  was  completely  empty,  but  she  feared  that 
Mrs.  William  might,  at  any  moment,  come  bustling 
into  it  and  banish  her.  There  were  benches  against  the 
wall,  and  she  dropped  down  on  one,  disconsolately. 
"Men,"  she  said  to  herself,  "how  horrid  they  are!" 
Her  eyes  filled  again,  and  she  luxuriated  in  her  tears. 

"In  trouble?"  A  great,  shaggy  gray  man,  comfort- 
ably shabby  and  amazingly  kind-looking,  enveloped 
her  in  an  expansive  personality. 

Ann  looked  up  at  him  and  nodded  drearily. 


136  THE  CORTLANDTS 

The  stranger  sat  down  beside  her,  quite  as  if  he 
had  known  her  all  his  life.  "Tell  me  about  it,  sister," 
he  said  buoyantly.  His  red  face  beamed  down  upon 
her,  above  a  wild  bush  of  gray  beard. 

"I  want  to  be  a  nurse,"  she  replied,  unexpectedly  to 
herself,  and  as  she  voiced  the  grievance,  she  knew  that 
what  she  resented  was  not  the  casual  manner  of  the 
two  attendants;  it  was  being  shut  out  from  their 
paradise. 

"And  why  not  ?"  demanded  her  new  friend,  oratori- 
cally.  "Nothing  is  more  noble!  These  young  men! 
.  .  .  Bands  with  cymbals  and  bugles  and  drums, 
making  everything  ring !  And  sabers  rattling  on  thou- 
sands of  men's  sides ;  they  wear  pistols  and  their  heels 
are  spurred, — handsome  American  young  men,  all 
eager  to  fight!  You've  seen  them?" 

Ann  nodded  again,  round  eyed,  and  he  swept  on. 

"They  pass  through  Washington, — I  have  seen  them 
there.  All  good  riders,  full  of  the  devil,  nobody  shaved, 
everybody  sunburnt,  masculine  and  healthy!  Noble- 
looking  fellows  proud  on  good  horses!  Going  off  for 
deadly  rendezvous  with  other  young  men,  just  as  fine- 
looking.  And  then  ?  I've  been  in  the  hospitals.  The 
most  pitiful  sight  is  when  they  are  first  brought  in, — 
pale  as  ashes,  all  dirty  and  torn, — rugged  young  men, 
all  weak  and  bloody,  uniforms  dirty,  and  all  bloody. 
All  wounds  bad, — some  frightful, — full  of  maggots 
and  festering.  I  have  to  hustle  around  to  keep  from 
bursting  out  crying." 

"But  what  do  you  do?    What  can  I  do?" 


HOSPITALS  137 

"Can  you  nurse?" 

"I  never  have." 

"No, — you  are  too  young.  The  men  like  middle- 
aged  nurses  and  mothers  of  families." 

"But  if  I  can't  nurse,  is  there  anything  else?" 

"I  should  say  so,"  he  fairly  shouted.  "I  believe 
the  reason  I  am  able  to  do  good  among  the  wounded 
boys  is  that  I  am  so  strong  and  well, — and  so>  are  you, 
and  beautiful,  too.  Men  come  in  faint  and  wounded; 
they  need  nourishing  things  to  eat.  I  am  going  now  to 
buy  oyster  soup  for  those  that  came  from  the  Phila- 
delphia ferry.  It  will  give  them  an  addition  to  their 
dinner.  They  like  home-made  biscuits,  too,  and  sweet 
cookies  and  jelly;  you  could  go  through  the  hospital 
every  day  doing  good  deeds.  Often  they  have  no 
money ;  you  could  give  them  small  sums  to  buy  a  glass 
of  milk  when  it  is  peddled  through  the  wards.  They 
all  want  to  write  home;  you  can  give  them  letter 
paper,  and  write  for  them  if  necessary.  You  can  read 
to  them,  and  talk  cheering  talk  to  them;  save  lives 
by  keeping  men  from  giving  up !  You  can  do  errands 
for  them."  Encouraged  by  Ann's  fascinated  stare, 
he  drew  a  little  note-book  from  his  pocket.  "I  keep 
a  list  here  of  things  they  want,  and  buy  them  for 
them.  And  so  it  goes.  Want  to  help?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Ann  gasped. 

"Come  along  then, — I'll  get  you  started.  Live  in 
New  York?" 

"Yes.     Do  you?" 

"No,  I  live  in  Brooklyn,  but  I'm  going  back  to 


138  [THE  CORTLANDTS 

Washington.  I  have  a  call  to  serve  in  the  hospitals 
there.  What  is  your  name?" 

"Ann  Byrne." 

"Well,  Annie,  good  luck !  My  name  is  Whitman, — 
Walt, — ever  hear  of  me?" 

"No."  Her  ignorance  spoke  eloquently  of  the  per- 
fection of  her  upbringing. 

He  chuckled.  "No,  but  you  will.  All  these  United 
States  will.  I  am  a  poet/'  he  explained  grandilo- 
quently. 

"I  know  some  poets,"  the  girl  ventured.  "Mr.  Will- 
iam Cullent  Bryant,  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell,  and 
Mr.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson." 

Walt  Whitman  laughed  delightedly.  "There  is  a 
man,"  he  cried.  "And  I  can  call  him  friend!  But 
come,  we  must  hurry,  or  no  oysters  for  my  boys!" 
He  hustled  Ann  unceremoniously  through  the  nearest 
doorway,  and  the  girl  paused,  aghast.  It  was  an  old 
drawing-room  in  which  she  found  herself,  good  sized 
iind  frivolously  ornamented,  with  the  sun  pouring  in 
the  high  uncurtained  windows.  The  glare  of  light 
revealed  mercilessly  all  the  horror  of  a  war  hospital 
ward.  Rows  of  cots  ran  up  and  down  the  room; 
they  were  crowded  close,  for  a  new  lot  of  wounded 
had  just  been  brought  in.  There  was  incredible  con- 
fusion everywhere.  Doctors  and  men  nurses  rushed 
about,  patients  who  were  able  to  walk  wandered  for- 
lornly here  and  there,  and  attendents  were  passing  a 
luncheon  of  boiled  rice  and  molasses.  The  air  was 
very  bad,  for  already  gangrene  was  making  hospital 


HOSPITALS  139 

wards  places  of  torment.  The  men  lay  sprawling  on 
the  beds,  more  often  than  not  still  in  their  dirty  uni- 
forms, inexpressibly  forlorn  and  unkept.  Ann  could 
scarcely  bear  to  look  at  them;  she  had  not  imagined 
that  soldiers  could  be  pathetic,  but  all  the  triumphant 
quality  was  gone  from  these  men.  She  wanted  to  cry, 
looking  at  them;  she  was  afraid  that  she  would,  and 
set  her  jaw  hard,  to  control  its  trembling. 

"This  is  what  you  must  do,"  Walt  Whitman 
whispered.  He  gave  her  a  little  pad  of  paper  and  a 
pencil.  "Follow  me." 

He  approached  the  nearest  cot,  and  bent  over  a  man 
who  lay  there:  he  radiated  vitality  and  helpfulness. 
"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  he  asked.  "Is  there 
anything  you  want?" 

"I  want  my  dinner,"  the  patient  answered  ungra- 
ciously. "I  can't  relish  molasses."  He  had  a  bandage 
tied  about  his  head,  and  over  one  eye. 

"I  thought  you  might  like  to  write  to  your  folks." 

"Write  home?  To  Massachusetts?  I'd  like  that  first 
rate,  but  there's  no  paper,  and  anyway,  I  can't  see. 
The  damned  Rebs  got  my  eye." 

Ann  moved  uncertainly  forward.  "Oh,  please  let  me 
write  for  you,"  she  gasped;  and  she  wrote,  at  his 
dictation,  how  her  patient  had  been  hurt  in  street  fight- 
ing in  Baltimore,  and  how  he  would  like  to  be  at  home 
again.  Her  nerves  steadied  somewhat  under  this  oc- 
cupation, and  when  she  had  finished,  her  amazing  new 
friend  had  disappeared.  However,  the  man  in  the  next 
cot  was  clamoring  for  water,  so  she  fetched  him  a  glass 


I4o  THE  CORTLANDTS 

from  the  pitcher,  and  then  settled  down  again  to  write 
another  letter,  this  time  for  a  lad  whose  arm  was 
horribly  smashed;  the  fresh  blood  on  his  bandages 
turned  her  momentarily  sick.  Following  Mr.  Whit- 
man's example,  she  made  a  little  list  of  the  things  the 
men  wanted,  and  promised  to  bring  them  on  the  mor- 
row. 

There  seemed  no  end  to  the  things  she  could  do, 
and  when  Fanny's  mother  found  her  she  was  so  deep- 
ly immersed  in  her  new  service  that  she  simply  paid  no 
attention  to  her  horrified  protests.  After  an  interval 
Mr.  Cortlandt  arrived,  ominously  stern-looking,  but 
when  he  found  Ann  sitting  by  the  bedside  of  a  white 
youth  whose  operation  loomed  close  ahead  of  him, 
reading  aloud  to  him  from  the  last  installment  of  The 
Adventures  of  Philip,  he  could  not  take  her  away. 
Instead,  as  he  met  the  agonized  panic  in  the  boy's 
glance,  he  bade  her  stay  until  the  doctors  were  ready 
for  him. 

The  operating-room  was  overcrowded,  and  a  pass- 
ing nurse  whispered  to  Ann  to  keep  her  patient 
amused,  as  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  they  would 
be  ready  for  him.  Amused!  Ann  looked  pitifully 
down  at  the  boy  on  the  cot;  he  lay  with  his  eyes 
screwed  shut,  and  his  lower  lip  caught  tight  in  his 
teeth ;  agony  was  plainly  written  on  his  face.  She  laid 
aside  her  Thackeray,  and  bent  over  him ;  little  drops  of 
perspiration  dotted  his  forehead,  and  his  breath  came 
raggedly.  With  an  unaccustomed  hand  that  trembled, 
she  mopped  his  face  with  her  handkerchief.  At  the 


HOSPITALS  141 

touch  his  eyes  flew  open ;  they  were  both  tormented  and 
terrified. 

"Does  it  hurt  so  much?"  Ann  whispered,  herself 
scarcely  able  to  bear  it. 

Her  patient  nodded  almost  imperceptibly;  he  wet 
his  lips  with  his  tongue  before  he  tried  to  speak.  "It 
is  my  back,"  he  gasped.  "Tell  them  to  hurry,  won't 
you?" 

Ann  flew  to  the  nearest  doctor,  and  clamored  for 
immediate  attention.  "He  is  suffering  terribly,"  she 
cried.  "You  must  take  him  in  and  operate." 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  gravely.  "There's  no  use," 
he  said.  "He  can't  live  anyway,  and  there  are  a  dozen 
men  ahead  of  him  we  have  a  chance  to  save." 

"You  mean — you'll  just  let  him  die?" 

"We  are  doing  the  best  we  can.  .  .  .  We  are 
so  tired  in  there  that  we  can  scarcely  stand.  We've 
been  operating  since  dawn.  ...  I  examined  that 
boy's  wound  myself.  Even  if  he  had  been  operated 
on  at  once,  he  couldn't  have  been  saved, — and  now  that 
gangrene  has  set  in !"  He  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"You  mean — he  just  has  to  die?" 

"We  all  do,  some  day.  .  .  .  The  time  comes 
when  no  one  can  do  anything  to  prevent  it.  .  .  . 
Go  back  and  keep  him  as  happy  as  you  can.  .  .  . 
Keep  him  hoping,  that's  the  thing.  You're  new  at 
this  game,  aren't  you?" 

Ann  nodded,  white-lipped. 

"Well,  the  thing  to  do  is  to  see  that  there  isn't  any 
unnecessary  unhappiness;  God  knows  there  is  enough 


142  THE  CORTLANDTS 

we  can't  help.  Don't  you  let  that  boy  know  he  is 
dying.  Never  mind  about  his  soul,  keep  his  heart 
up."  He  rushed  off  to  his  operating-room,  and  Ann 
returned  to  her  task. 

She  was  amazed  at  the  cheerful  sound  of  her  voice 
as  she  assured  her  patient  that  his  operation  could  wait. 
"You  are  all  right,"  she  said.  "It  hurts,  I  know,— 
but  it  will  be  better  soon."  She  could  not  look  at  him, 
as  he  hung  on  her  lying  words,  but  she  brought  him 
water  to  sip,  and  bathed  his  face  and  wrists  until  his 
tension  relaxed  somewhat.  She  coaxed  his  mother's 
name  from  him,  and  wrote  a  little  message  for  her, 
more  hers  than  the  dying  boy's. 

After  a  while  he  said,  "I  wish  you  would  go  on 
reading  to  me.  I  like  the  sound  of  your  voice."  Ann 
gratefully  took  up  the  magazine  and  continued  her 
reading;  the  troubles  of  Catherine  had  lost  their  poig- 
nancy, but  she  turned  page  after  page,  with  no  idea 
of  what  she  read. 

Presently,  when  the  dark  was  beginning  to  gather 
in  the  corners  of  the  room,  and  the  attendants  had 
lighted  the  lamps  on  the  mantle,  the  doctor  to  whom 
she  had  spoken  came  back.  When  he  saw  her,  he 
walked  across  to  her,  and  leaned  over  the  cot.  "How 
long  have  you  been  reading?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know.    Hours,  I  think." 

"You  can  stop,  now." 

The  magazine  dropped  to  the  floor  with  a  little 
crash,  yet  the  figure  on  the  cot  did  not  stir.  "Is  he 
dead?"  Ann  whispered. 


HOSPITALS  143 

The  doctor  nodded,  and  beckoned  an  orderly  over 
to  him.  "We'll  get  him  out  while  the  men  are  eating 
their  supper.  Did  you  have  any  trouble  with  him?" 

Ann  shook  her  head.  She  could  not  believe  that 
while  she  had  sat  so  close  to  him,  death  had  snatched 
him  away.  Death !  She  had  always  supposed  it  came 
with  pomp  and  a  beating  of  wings, — not  stealthily,  like 
a  footpad  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  Death!  She  was 
tremulous  and  shaken.  .  .  .  As  she  forced  herself 
to  look  down  on  the  boy,  she  wished  that  he  had  not 
died  with  a  grimace  of  agony  on  his  face.  She  felt 
sick,  and  swallowed  convulsively  for  an  instant.  He 
did  not  look  different,  she  thought,  and  yet,  everything 
was  changed.  .  .  .  He  was  no  more.  .  .  . 
Her  lips  whispered  the  words  stupidly.  .  .  .  And 
it  could  not  be  more  than  a  half-hour  since  he  had 
spoken  to  her ; — since  she  had  been  able  to  serve  him. 
.  .  .  It  was  incredible. 

"Did  you  get  any  information  about  his  folks?" 

Ann  found  her  lips  so  dry  that  she  could  scarcely 
speak.  "I  have  a  note  for  his  mother." 

The  doctor  nodded  quick  approval.  "That's  good," 
he  said.  "It  means  a  lot.  Just  add  a  line,  and  tell 
her  he  didn't  suffer  any.  .  .  .  You  look  about 
beat.  Ever  see  any  one  die  before?" 

Ann  shook  her  head.  She  was  suddenly  sorry  for 
herself,  and  came  near  to  bursting  into  tears. 

"You'd  better  go  home,"  the  doctor  advised. 
"You've  done  a  good  job  here.  When  are  you  coming 
back?" 


144  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Ann's  eyes  dropped  to  the  still  form  the  orderly 
was  covering  with  a  sheet.  ...  It  seemed  an 
indefinitely  long  time  ago  that  work  in  the  hospital 
had  looked  like  a  desirable  adventure.  .  .  .  She 
shivered  uncontrollably.  "To-morrow,"  she  said,  her 
voice  very  low. 

The  safe  pleasantness  of  the  Washington  Square 
house  enveloped  her  in  peaceful  restfulness.  As  she 
climbed  the  steps,  a  vision  of  her  cool  room  rose 
before  her,  incredibly  enticing  after  the  emotional 
strain  of  the  day.  All  the  way  home  she  had  been 
planning  what  she  could  say  to  the  dead  boy's  mother ; 
that  task  still  confronted  her,  but  she  was  glad  she 
had  it  to  do.  She  would,  she  thought,  tell  her  guardian, 
very  quietly,  that  her  patient  had  died,  and  then  she 
would  get  out  her  little  desk,  at  which  she  had  written 
only  frivolous  notes,  and  letters  to  Hendricks.  . 
She  put  out  her  hand  to  ring  the  bell,  but  before  she 
could  sound  its  friendly  jangle,  the  door  was  flung 
open,  and  there  was  Mrs.  Renneslyer  on  the  threshold. 
Ann  shrank  back;  there  was  no  one  she  would  not 
rather  have  seen  at  the  moment. 

"I  know  all  about  where  you  have  been,  miss,"  the 
lady  cried,  and  swept  the  girl  into  the  library,  where 
Mr.  Cortlandt  was  reading  his  afternoon  paper.  Ann 
thought  that  there  was  more  of  reluctance  than  reproof 
in  his  manner,  as  he  looked  up  at  her. 

"I'm  glad  I  went,  uncle,"  she  said  defiantly.  "You 
know,  yourself,  that  I  was  useful."  She  could  not 
say  any  more;  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  mention 


HOSPITALS  145 

the  dead  soldier  in  Mrs.  Renneslyer's  scandalized  pres- 
ence. 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  admitted  judicially,  "you 
were." 

"Hendricks,"  his  sister  said  severely,  "don't  encour- 
age her!  How  could  you  do  such  a  thing,  Ann,  after 
we  had  all  agreed  it  was  improper?" 

"Because  I  know  you  are  all  wrong,"  the  girl 
answered,  with  a  spirited  lift  of  her  head.  "Uncle, 
—you  saw  me  there.  Is  there  anything  improper  in 
what  I  was  doing?" 

"Well,  it  is  unconventional,  my  dear,  for  you  to  be 
there  at  all." 

"So  is  war  unconventional!  If  I  were  a  boy  I 
should  run  away  to  enlist,  I  suppose,  but  as  I'm  not, 
all  I  can  do  is  to  help  take  care  of  men  who  are — 
hurt.  It's  horrible  being  a  woman,  when  there's  a 
war !"  She  swung  on  Mrs.  Renneslyer,  "Go  there  your- 
self, and  look  at  them,  and  tell  me  then  whether  it 
seems  important  if  I  am  conventional  or  not !" 

"I  couldn't  bear  to  set  my  foot  in  a  hospital,  Ann, — - 
and  my  boy  under  arms!  My  nerves  would  never 
stand  it, — and  yours  shouldn't,  either!" 

"Well,"  said  the  girl  dryly,  "I  guess  I  haven't  any 
nerves."  Death!  She  had  seen  death  that  day,  and 
they  talked  to  her  of  nerves !  "Uncle,  may  I  go  back 
to-morrow?  See  what  I've  promised  to  bring  them!'* 
She  produced  the  crumpled  piece  of  paper  upon  which 
she  had,  early  in  the  day,  written  her  list,  and  read 
from  it,  triumphantly,  "  'Licorice,  raspberry  vinegar' — 


146  THE  CORTLANDTS 

to  make  a  cold  drink  you  know,  uncle, — 'a  pipe  and 
tobacco,  horehound  candy,  a  German  Lutheran  clergy- 
man/— that  man  was  very  ill,  I'm  afraid  he  may  not 
live  until  morning, — 'tooth  picks,  a  comb,  oranges  and 
apples,  pickles,  plug  tobacco.' ' 

"Plug  tobacco!"  Mrs.  Renneslyer  interrupted  in- 
dignantly. "And  you  but  seventeen!" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  took  in  Ann's  helpless  vexation,  and 
he  smiled.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "you  may  go  back." 

"She  will  become  the  talk  of  the  town,"  his  sister 
warned  him. 

"In  that  case,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  responded  dryly,  "it 
is  just  as  well  that  there  will  be  something  fine  to  say 
of  her."  He  drew  Ann  close  to  him,  and  she  pressed 
her  cool  cheek  against  his  gratefully.  She  didn't  want 
to  talk  about  her  tragic  experience  until  Mrs.  Ren- 
neslyer had  gone. 

"I  met  a  nice  man  there  to-day,"  she  volunteered 
placatingly,  in  hopes  of  creating  a  happier  atmosphere, 
"a  Mr.  Whitman." 

"Mr.  Whitman?"  her  guardian  smiled  whimsically. 
"Not  Walt,  I  presume?" 

"But  yes,"  said  Ann  eagerly,  "that  is  just  who  he 
was.  He  says  he  is  a  poet."  Her  eyes  wandered  to  the 
shelves  where  poetry  was  stored. 

Two  things  happened  very  quickly.  Mrs.  Renneslyer 
shot  up  out  of  her  seat  as  though  it  had  suddenly 
become  red-hot,  and  Mr.  Cortlandt  demanded  sharply, 
"What  did  he  say  to  you?"  It  seemed  to  Ann  that  he 
turned  pale,  but  she  knew  that  she  must  be  mistaken. 


HOSPITALS  147 

"We  talked  about  the  wounded  men,"  she  said  rea- 
sonably, "and  he  told  me  what  I  could  do  for  them." 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  cut  in  here,  "You  see,  Hendricks, 
what  the  hospitals  mean?  Walt  Whitman !" 

"But,"  Ann  protested,  "I  liked  him.  He  is  a  nice 
man." 

"Nice?"  demanded  Mrs.  Renneslyer  explosively. 
"Good  heavens!" 

Her  brother  frowned  at  her  reprovingly.  '  'To  the 
pure/  Qarissa,  remember." 

"You  don't  like  him,  do  you,  uncle?" 
.     "No." 

"Why  not?    I  did." 

"I  don't  know  him." 

"That's  no  reason.  He  is  good, — and  kind.  Don't 
you  like  his  poetry, — is  that  it?  Is  he  a  bad 
poet?" 

"No,  I  think  he  may  be  a  good  one.  Mr.  Emerson 
thinks  so, — and  Mr.  Dana,  of  The  Tribune,  is  a  great 
champion  of  his.  But  his  subjects — !"  He  broke  off, 
and  now  Ann  thought  his  face  was  flushed.  "We 
won't  discuss  it." 

"I  congratulate  you  on  your  wisdom,"  Mrs.  Ren- 
neslyer said  coldly,  and  Ann  held  her  peace.  She 
realized  that  the  introduction  of  her  new  acquaintance 
into  the  conversation  made  her  hospital  service  more 
bleakly  undesirable  than  before. 

Ill  at  ease,  she  wandered  over  to  the  bookcase;  be- 
hind her  back,  she  could  feel  that  two  pair  of  eyes 
were  riveted  upon  her.  Affecting  nonchalance,  she 


148  THE  CORTLANDTS 

stood  looking  over  the  shining  titles.  A  thin  little 
volume  caught  her  attention. 

"Enfants  d'Adam?"  she  read  aloud.  "Did  he 
write  about  Cain  and  Abel  ?" 

"Ann,"  her  guardian  said  ceremoniously,  behind  her, 
"we  are  waiting  supper  for  you.  Perhaps  you  would 
better  go  up  and  dress!" 

And  later,  when  she  returned  to  get  the  book,  it  was 
gone.  It  made  no  difference,  however,  for  she  still 
had  her  letter  to  write. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WASHINGTON — 'SIXTY-ONE 

HENDRICKS  had  been  gone  for  a  month  and  had 
written  several  persuasive  letters  before  Mr.  Cortlandt 
found  it  possible  to  go  to  Washington,  and  by  that  time 
Ann  was  so  deeply  involved  in  hospital  service,  that 
she  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  away.  As  they  left 
the  dock  on  the  Baltimore  and  Ohio  ferry,  they  each 
had  a  delightful  sense  of  a  holiday  well  earned. 

Hendricks  met  them  at  the  station;  the  first  thing 
Ann  saw,  as  she  leaned  to  look  out  of  the  car  window, 
was  his  beaming  smile.  He  had,  she  observed,  grown 
a  mustache,  and  she  had  a  startled  sense  of  not  liking 
it.  She  had  been  looking  forward  with  impatience  to 
seeing  him  again,  but  now  that  the  meeting  loomed 
imminent  she  was  curiously  reluctant.  As  she  walked 
sedately  down  the  car  aisle  behind  her  guardian  she 
was  struggling  with  a  puerile  sense  of  panic. 

Hendricks  enveloped  her  in  a  huge  embrace,  and 
kissed  her;  he  held  her  at  arm's  length,  rejoicing.  "She 
looks  tired  out,  sir,"  he  said,  as  he  took  his  uncle's 
hand.  "Too  much  hospital  nonsense!" 

The  color  flew  into  Ann's  face  as  she  jerked  her- 
self free,  but  she  said  nothing;  she  did  not  even  so 
much  as  glance  at  her  guardian,  for  she  was  afraid 
lest  he,  too,  might  be  criticizing  Hendricks  adversely. 

They  drove  at  once  to  the  hotel,  in  an  open  barouche 

149 


150  THE  CORTLANDTS 

which  enabled  Ann  to  look  eagerly  about  her.  Just 
outside  the  station  were  frame  barracks ;  new  and  raw 
in  the  warm  October  sunlight. 

"That  must  be  where  the  Fifty-Fifth  spent  its  first 
night,  Hendricks !"  she  cried,  her  eyes  shining,  and  he 
nodded,  pleased  that  she  remembered. 

The  town  was  full  of  uniforms,  and  important, 
hurrying  orderlies.  "This  place  has  learned  to  make 
haste,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  observed  approvingly,  as  they 
narrowly  escaped  a  collision  with  a  soldier  on  a  gal- 
loping horse. 

The  hotels  were  all  overcrowded,  but  Hendricks  had 
reserved  rooms  for  his  uncle,  and,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments' wait  in  a  swarming  lobby,  where  Ann  was  pleas- 
antly conscious  of  admiring  glances  flung  at  her  by 
young  men  in  uniform  and  older  ones  in  black  Prince 
Alberts,  they  went  up-stairs.  Their  rooms  were  on  a 
corner;  from  the  windows  she  could  see  the  massive 
portico  of  the  Treasury  Building,  and  beyond,  the 
shrubbery  surrounding  the  White  House,  gold  colored 
and  ruddy  brown.  Below  her  was  the  fascinating  pano- 
rama of  the  street;  men  and  women  passed  to  and  fro 
constantly,  horsemen  trotted  through  the  crowd, 
negroes  on  street  corners  were  offering  flowers  and 
fruit  for  sale,  and  from  somewhere  came  the  inspirit- 
ing sound  of  a  band.  Ann  opened  her  window.  The 
soft  air  enveloped  her  sweetly,  and  the  strain  of  the 
fifes  came  shriller.  As  she  looked  the  street  was 
cleared  for  troops  to  pass ;  the  band  swung  around  the 
corner,  with  a  massive  crash  of  drums  and  horns, 


WASHINGTON— 'SIXTY-ONE  1 5 1 

and  behind  it  came  a  regiment  of  cavalry.  The  officers 
were  splendidly  mounted,  but  the  horses  the  men  rode 
were  not  so  good,  and  the  lines  were  ragged  as  they 
made  the  turn. 

"Not  enough  drill,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  commented 
grimly. 

They  marched  on,  company  after  company,  while 
the  music  of  the  band  grew  gradually  fainter;  at  the 
end  was  a  group  of  mounted  negroes,  and  a  long  string 
of  baggage  wagons,  each  with  four  horses  and  a  rear- 
guard. Ann  gasped.  This  was  warfare. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "Hen- 
dricks  has  the  day  off,"  he  said,  "and  he  suggests  we 
ride  over  to  Arlington." 

"Where  Colonel  Lee  lived?" 

"Yes.  General  McDowell  has  his  headquarters  in 
the  old  Lee  mansion,  and  a  mile  or  so  beyond  twelve 
thousand  of  our  men  are  encamped  at  Upton  Hill. 
We  might  take  a  look  at  an  outpost." 

"Oh,  what  a  heavenly  plan!" 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  riding  through  the  streets 
on  their  way  to  the  long  bridge;  ahead  of  them  the 
Washington  monument,  blunt  topped,  but  impressive, 
swam  in  an  Indian  summer  haze,  indefinite  of  outline 
and  exquisite,  against  the  spinning  blue  of  the  October 
sky.  Ann's  horse  pranced  pleasantly  as  she  reined 
him  in ;  the  sun  was  warmer  than  it  had  been  in  New 
York,  and  infinitely  more  relaxing;  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  charming  sense  of  well  being,  and  she 
smiled,  with  exactly  the  same  affectionate  good  com- 


1 52  THE  CORTLANDTS 

radeship,  first  into  her  uncle's  eyes,  and  then  into  Hen* 
dricks'. 

The  opposite  bank  of  the  river  brought  the  fighting 
abruptly  nearer:  the  roads  were  cut  into  deep  ruts 
by  the  heavy  ammunition  wagons,  and  the  grassy  sides 
were  trampled  by  the  feet  of  marching  multitudes.  On 
either  hand  the  fences  were  torn  away,  and  abandoned 
fires,  which  still  smoked  drearily,  showed  where  men 
had  camped  the  night  before. 

They  rode  on  between  wide  fields  where  the  grain 
stood  in  shocks,  and  woods  where  the  air  quivered 
with  the  glint  of  yellow  falling  leaves,  until  they  came 
to  the  gates  of  what  had  been  Robert  E.  Lee's  estate. 
His  house  was  high  above  the  Potomac,  set,  like  a 
challenge,  directly  opposite  Washington. 

Ann  had  never  before  seen  anything  so  elegant  as 
the  grounds;  the  driveway  made  leisurely  turns 
through  shady  groves,  and  past  sunny  open  spaces 
where  an  occasional  flower  showed  a  brave  color.  On 
every  hand,  however,  there  were  traces  of  war.  Great 
circles  were  stamped  under  trees  where  saddle  horses 
had  been  tied,  and  the  gardens  had  been  trampled  into 
hopeless  disorder.  Tents  for  the  guard  had  been  set 
up  between  the  arches  of  rose  vines,  and  saddled  and 
bridled  horses  were  tied  at  intervals  along  a  brick 
wall  where  the  ivy  hung  thick  and  glossy,  but  was  torn 
away  in  great  bare  patches. 

On  the  edge  of  a  clearing  a  gleam  of  white  caught 
Ann's  eye ;  it  was  a  broken  pedestal,  standing  in  a  for- 


WASHINGTON— 'SIXTY-ONE  153 

mal  recess  among  fir  trees ;  its  statue  was  gone,  and  on 
its  stubby  shank  it  bore  a  roughly  lettered  legend  "To 
II —  with  traitor  Lee."  Farther  on  Hendricks  rode 
off  through  the  trees  and  came  back  triumphantly  with 
camellias  in  his  hand.  He  gave  them  to  Ann;  they 
were  exquisite  things,  one  the  clearest  pink  and  one 
faintly  yellow;  it  was  the  height  of  incongruity  to  find 
them  placidly  and  perfectly  blooming,  and  the  girl 
wondered,  as  she  slipped  them  under  a  button  of  her 
habit,  for  what  woman  they  had  first  been  planted, 
and  if,  only  last  spring,  she  had  pruned  their  shining 
stalks. 

The  house  loomed  up  ahead,  thrusting  a  pale  buff 
shoulder  toward  the  curve  of  the  driveway;  it  was  a 
huge  place,  with  an  ample  central  building  and  wide- 
flung  wings.  It  was,  Ann  thought,  the  sort  of  place 
a  man  would  build  for  future  generations, — for  his 
sons'  sons, — to  inhabit,  and  looking  at  it,  she  felt 
sorry  for  Colonel  Lee,  as  she  called  him,  giving  him 
the  title  he  had  borne  in  the  United  States  Army. 

"It  must  have  been  hard  to  give  all  this  up,"  her 
guardian  said,  voicing  her  unspoken  thought  "He 
must  have  cared  a  lot." 

"Dirty  traitor!"  Hendricks  said  briefly,  and  reach- 
ing up,  he  seized  a  graciously  bending  bough,  and,  rid- 
ing on,  held  it  until  it  was  torn  from  the  tree,  when  he 
dropped  it  carelessly. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  frowned.  "He  did  what  he  thought 
was  his  duty,  Hendricks.  Make  no  mistake  about  Lee. 


154  THE  CORTLANDTS 

He  is  an  honorable  man, — mistaken,  but  a  gentleman, 
although  an  enemy." 

Ann's  eyes  shone  on  him  for  his  generosity;  she 
felt  inexpressibly  melancholy,  as  she  slipped  down 
from  her  horse  quickly,  before  Hendricks,  red-handed 
from  his  rape  of  the  bough,  could  touch  her.  There 
was  a  terrace  before  the  house,  and  on  one  side  of  the 
entrance  a  peacock  clipped  from  box  stood,  grown 
somewhat  shaggy,  but  eloquent  of  better  days.  His 
fellow  was  gone,  only  the  mutilated  stalks,  cut  off  at 
the  roots,  showed  where  once  he  had  preened,  in  ele- 
gant artificiality.  On  the  plaster  wall  to  the  right  of 
the  door  was  a  rude  soldier's  sketch  of  a  hanging  of 
Jeff  Davis,  done  in  heavy  black  lines,  and  with  some 
skill  in  caricature. 

The  general  was  glad  to  see  them,  and  showed  them 
over  the  lower  floor  of  the  house,  which  remained 
much  as  the  Lee  family  had  left  it,  when  they  took 
flight.  Here  and  there  a  heavy  damask  curtain  had 
been  torn  from  a  window,  and  lay  in  a  crumpled 
heap  on  the  floor,  and  in  almost  every  room  some 
pieces  of  the  delicate  Sheraton  furniture  had  proved 
inadequate  to  the  repose  of  heavy  soldiers:  wrecked 
chairs  were  shoved  into  a  corner,  or  lay  broken  in  the 
fireplaces,  and  glass  from  secretary  doors  lay  in  shat- 
tered piles  where  it  had  fallen.  Traces  of  men's  occu- 
pation were  everywhere.  A  saddle  straddled  the  back 
of  an  Empire  sofa  in  what  had  been  the  drawing-room, 
and  boots  sprawled  on  the  Aubousson  carpet.  The  din- 
ing table  was  littered  with  soiled  glasses,  empty  bot- 


WASHINGTON— 'SIXTY-ONE          155 

ties,  rinds  of  cheese,  and  pipes,  while  newspapers  lay 
about,  spread  open,  everywhere. 

The  general  apologized  for  the  confusion.  "I'd 
hate  to  have  Mrs.  McDowell  see  what  sort  of  house- 
keeper I  am,"  he  said,  smiling  at  Ann.  "But  we  do 
a  deal  of  business  from  this  place.  I've  sent  all  the 
George  Washington  silver,  and  the  vases  the  French 
government  gave  him, — all  the  relics  of  his  I  could 
find, — over  to  the  Interior  Building  for  safe-keeping. 
They  belong  to  Mrs.  Lee  of  course ;  she  inherited  them 
from  her  father,  who  had  them  direct  from  Mr.  Wash- 
ington himself.  I'd  hate  to  have  had  anything  hap- 
pen to  them,  but  the  rest  of  the  stuff  I  can't  bother 
about." 

The  younger  officers  took  the  girl  out  to  the  terrace 
before  the  columned  front  of  the  house,  and  she  paced 
back  and  forth  with  them,  holding  the  long  skirt  of 
her  habit  above  her  shining  black  boots,  while  Mr. 
Cortlandt  and  General  McDowell  talked  of  dull  things 
like  equipment  of  troops. 

Across  the  blue  ribbon  of  the  Potomac  lay  the 
Capital — a  magic  white  city. 

"How  foolish  they  are,"  Ann  cried,  "to  think  that 
we  would  ever  let  them  take — that!" 

The  young  soldiers  echoed  her  gaily.  With 
their  lives  at  stake,  they  boasted  boyishly  of  what 
they  proposed  to  do  to  the  Johnnie  Rebs. 

Ann's  attention  was  caught  by  the  clusters  of  new 
buildings,  which  showed  up  white  and  raw,  here  and 
there  in  the  environs  of  Washington. 


156  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"What  are  they?"  she  asked  curiously. 

A  grave-faced  captain  answered  her.  "The  barracks 
over  yonder?  The  government  is  building  hospitals." 

"But — there  are  acres  of  them !"  Ann  cried  aghast. 

"It'll  be  a  bloody  business,  ma'am,  before  we're  done. 
The  trouble  with  you  northerners  is  you  underestimate 
us." 

He  turned  away  as  he  spoke,  and  Ann  whispered, 
"Who  is  he?" 

"He's  from  Tennessee.  There's  no  better  Union 
man  in  the  army,  though." 

The  captain  caught  the  words,  and  turned.  "Yes," 
he  drawled,  "I  reckon  I'm  a  good  Union  man,  all 
right.  ...  I  had  a  right  smart  start  in  business 
in  Chattanooga,  a  home  there,  and  all  that,  and  now 
my  family's  been  turned  out,  of  course.  They're  in 
Chicago,  my  wife  and  two  little  girls,  in  a  boarding- 
house.  An'  here  I  am,  in  a  blue  uniform,  fightin' 
f'r  the  North,  against  my  own  brothers,  an'  my  wife's 
'father.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  reckon  I've  earned  a  right  to 
be  considered  a  good  Union  man.  I've  paid  the  price." 

Ann  looked  at  him  with  shining  eyes,  in  the  em- 
barrassed silence  which  followed  his  outburst.  She 
longed  to  tell  him  that  she  thought  him  an  heroic 
figure,  but  instead  she  only  murmured,  inadequately, 
"I  wish  I  lived  in  Chicago.  I'd  love  to  know  your 
wife."  Then  the  gaiety  swelled  out  again,  as  ir- 
repressible as  youth. 

When  they  rode  on  several  of  the  officers  received 
permission  to  go  with  them,  and  Hendricks  was 


WASHINGTON— 'SIXTY-ONE  157 

crowded  away  from  his  coveted  place  by  Ann's  side. 
She  smiled  at  him  ruefully,  but  he  made  no  attempt 
to  hide  his  resentment,  and  Ann,  in  an  effort  to  mask 
his  silent  gloom,  forced  herself  to  chatter  feverishly. 
She  was  enormously  irritated  with  him,  and  amazed 
that  he  could  wilfully  make  himself  so  unattractive. 
Through  her  mind  flashed  a  wonder  if  she  would 
spend  a  good  part  of  her  life  diverting  attention  from 
a  sulky  Hendricks,  but  she  banished  it,  sternly. 

There  was  incredible  confusion  in  the  advanced 
post.  Men  were  setting  up  tents,  artillery  wagons  were 
struggling  through  deeply  rutted  roads  to  the  front, 
fires  were  started,  and  rations  were  being  cooked.  The 
visitors  sniffed  frying  salt  pork  wistfully.  There  was 
no  fighting  going  on,  as  the  Confederates  had  with- 
drawn from  Upton  Hill  without  a  contest,  so  it  was 
possible  to  ride  straight  through  the  camp  to  where  the 
sentinels  kept  a  meticulous  watch,  and  where,  just 
ahead,  the  enemy  might  be  pointed  out.  There  Ann 
saw,  for  the  first  time,  a  Rebel  flag;  it  flew  above  an 
opening  in  the  trees,  and  the  smoke  of  enemy  camp- 
fires  rose  in  friendly  fashion,  here  and  there  along  the 
line,  but  that  was  all ; — no  men  were  visible. 

They  came  across  the  colonel,  making  the  rounds 
of  his  outpost,  and  he  begged  well-known  Mr.  Cort- 
landt,  the  pretty  girl  and  the  group  of  brilliant  young 
staff  officers  to  come  back  to  his  tent  for  refreshment, 
before  returning  to  Washington. 

"Try  our  camp  fare,"  he  urged.  "It  is  rough,  but 
it  is  what  your  army  fights  on." 


158  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Ann  accepted  at  once,  eager  to  sample  the  soldiers' 
rations,  but  when,  after  some  delay,  the  collation  was 
prepared,  it  proved  to  be  a  rather  elaborate  luncheon, 
served  with  champagne  from  a  box  under  the  colonel's 
camp  bedstead! 

They  were  very  gay  over  it ;  even  Hendricks'  gloom 
lightened  with  his  second  glass,  but  when  they  had 
finished  they  had  to  hurry  back  to  Washington,  lest 
Lieutenant  Renneslyer  should  overstay  his  leave.  The 
escort  of  young  officers  parted  from  them  regretfully 
at  the  gates  of  the  Lee  mansion,  and  Ann  and  Mr. 
Cortlandt  and  Hendricks  trotted  steadily  on,  making 
the  best  time  they  might,  picking  their  way  over  the 
rough  roads  of  the  long  downward  slope.  They  had 
little  opportunity  for  conversation  until  the  bridge  was 
reached,  when  they  pulled  the  horses  down  to  a  walk. 
Then  Hendricks  spoke,  with  an  air  of  one  who  un- 
burdens himself  of  something  he  has  long  had  on  his 
mind. 

"Ann,  I'm  not  sure  I  shall  allow  you  to  go  on  with 
this  hospital  work.  I  don't  half  like  it." 

"Allow !"  cried  the  girl,  flashing  an  angry  glance  at 
him.  "What  a  word!" 

"Surely  I  have  a  right  to  decide  what  is  best  for 
you!" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  coughed  deprecatingly,  but  no  one 
noticed  him.  Ann  was  frankly  aghast.  Was  this  what 
it  meant  to  become  engaged,  she  wondered?  Must 
she  submit  to  Hendricks'  judgment, — she  who  so  sel- 
dom agreed  with  him? 


WASHINGTON— 'SIXTY-ONE  159 

"I  wouldn't  stop  working  in  the  hospitals,  even 
if  uncle  told  me  to,"  she  said,  with  heightened  color. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  hastened  to  intervene.  "In  that  case, 
my  dear,  I  shan't  interfere.  .  .  .  But  I  think  you 
are  wrong  in  this,  Hendricks.  ...  I  entirely  ap- 
prove of  her  work.  It  has  my  sanction." 

At  this  important  support,  the  boy  allowed  the  sub- 
ject to  drop,  but  he  relapsed  into  gloom  again,  and  did 
not  emerge  when  he  left  them,  on  the  outskirts  of 
town. 

At  the  hotel  Ann  learned  that  there  was  to  be  a 
reception  that  evening  at  the  White  House. 

"Couldn't  we  get  invitations?"  she  demanded  of 
Mr.  Cortlandt. 

He  laughed.  "We  wouldn't  need  any,  my  child. 
The  whole  world  is  free  to  walk  in." 

"Then  we  will  go?" 

"It  will  be  a  frightful  crush." 

"I  don't  care.  We  needn't  stay  long,  uncle,  but  I 
must  see  the  president." 

"That's  a  good  reason  for  going,  I'll  admit,"  he 
allowed,  yielding  with  a  sigh. 

The  crowd  was  extraordinarily  varied.  Congress- 
men from  agricultural  districts,  bearing  timid  rural 
wives  on  their  arms,  clumped  in,  in  thick  boots.  Ele- 
gant young  men  from  foreign  embassies  sauntered 
through  the  throng,  detached  and  amused  at  this  spec- 
tacle of  democracy,  generals  in  gala  uniform  stood  im- 
portantly about,  fashionable  creatures,  dressed,  like 
Ann,  in  their  best,  maneuvered  their  vast  skirts  skil- 


160  THE  CORTLANDTS 

fully,  shrewd-eyed  gentlemen,  who  were  in  Washing- 
ton angling  for  contracts,  lay  in  wait  for  senators 
or  cabinet  members,  and  plain  people  of  the  incon- 
spicuous walks  of  life  rubbed  elbows  with  the  rich  and 
great.  Here  and  there  were  eddies  of  men  and  women 
about  some  well-known  person.  Mr.  Stanton's  broad 
shoulders  and  massive  head  rose  above  a  close  group 
of  his  admirers,  to  whom  he  was  pointing  out  the 
necessity  for  haste  in  bringing  the  army  to  fighting 
efficiency,  and  in  a  corner,  partly  withdrawn  from  the 
crowd,  the  tall  and  venerably  insignificant  secretary  of 
the  navy  was  explaining  why  he  was  as  yet  unwilling 
to  commit  the  government  to  the  purchase  of  iron 
boats  now  building  at  Boston. 

The  president  stood  at  the  door  of  the  second  parlor, 
with  a  secretary  beside  him  who  gave  him  the  names 
of  his  callers.  Ann's  first  impression  was  of  his  extra- 
ordinary height,  for  he  towered  over  the  people  about 
him,  and  then  the  amazing  charm  of  his  face  caught 
her; — tragic,  humorous,  distinguished  and  kindly,  she 
adored  him,  at  first  sight.  He  was  obviously  bored 
at  the  tiresome  ceremony  of  handshaking,  but  as 
obviously  determined  to  go  through  with  it  with  pains- 
taking courtesy;  he  had  a  routine  of  greeting,  "I 
am  charmed  to  see  you  here,"  he  said,  over  and  over, 
with  a  look  of  grave  concern.  When  Mr.  Cortlandt 
turned  up  in  line,  however,  his  face  brightened  amaz- 
ingly. "My  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "what  a  horrible 
occasion  for  you!"  He  laughed,  and  became  another 
man  from  the  care-worn  host  of  a  moment  before. 


WASHINGTON— 'SIXTY-ONE  161 

Mr.  Cortlandt  presented  Ann,  and  the  president 
shook  her  hand  warmly,  looking  deeply  into  her  ardent 
eyes,  with  the  penetrating  glance  of  a  man  who  is  a 
rapid  judge  of  character.  "You'll  find  Mrs.  Lincoln 
over  yonder,"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  could  take  you  to 
her." 

The  secretary  spoke  another  name,  and  Ann  and 
her  guardian  were  swept  on.  "That's  over,"  Mr. 
Cortlandt  sighed,  relieved. 

Mrs.  Lincoln  was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  ladies, 
whose  crinolines  and  trains  sheltered  her  from  the 
throng.  She  was  dressed  with  great  elegance,  and 
seemed  a  much  more  worldly  creature  than  her  hus- 
band, but  she  responded  to  Mr.  Cortlandt's  salutations 
somewhat  vaguely,  and  paid  Ann  only  the  conventional 
recognition  of  her  bow. 

The  rooms  were  becoming  more  crowded,  and  Mr. 
Cortlandt  soon  declared  it  was  time  to  go  back  to  the 
hotel.  As  they  stood  under  the  high  white  portico 
of  the  entrance,  waiting  for  their  carriage,  they  were 
joined  by  three  of  the  young  staff  officers  who  had 
ridden  with  them  in  the  morning  to  the  advanced 
post. 

"We  came  over  in  hopes  of  seeing  you  again," 
they  told  Ann  joyously.  "There  is  dancing  at  the 
hotel  every  night,  you  know,  and  it  is  quite  gay,  as 
the  officers  ride  in  from  the  outposts,  when  the  fight- 
ing is  over,  for  the  night." 

Dancing!  Ann's  regrets  at  leaving  the  reception 
vanished.  She  glanced  at  her  guardian  to  see  how 


162  THE  CORTLANDTS 

this  suggestion  appealed  to  him.  He  met  her  eager 
eyes,  and  laughed.  "Seventeen!"  he  said  good- 
naturedly. 

It  was  exactly  like  a  ball,  at  the  hotel.  A  band 
played  perfect  polkas  and  waltzes,  and  its  leader  called 
out  the  quadrille  figures  like  a  general  directing  his 
army.  Ann  had  never  had  so  delightful  a  time.  Her 
three  officers  were  most  attentive;  they  filled  her  card 
with  their  initials,  and  brought  other  young  men  to 
be  introduced  to  her.  When  midnight  came,  and  the 
musicians  brought  the  evening  to  a  close  with  a  final 
glorious  redowa,  she  was  flushed  and  breathless,  and 
very  happy.  She  had  quite  overcome  the  uncomfort- 
able feeling  Hendricks  had  left  with  her,  earlier  in 
the  day. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FLIGHT 

THE  following  day  there  was  a  great  review  of  the 
troops  by  General  McClellan.  Mr.  Cortlandt  and  his 
ward  drove  out  to  the  field  east  of  the  capitol  in  an 
open  carriage;  they  attracted  much  attention,  for  the 
distinguished-looking  old  man,  with  his  aquiline  face 
and  spare  erect  figure,  and  the  blooming  girl  beside 
him  whose  voluminous  silken  skirts  filled  all  the  car- 
riage, were  not  a  couple  to  pass  unobserved.  They 
had  no  sooner  taken  their  place  on  the  side  of  the  field 
than  their  barouche  was  surrounded,  and  Ann  found 
several  attentive  young  men  at  hand,  eager  to  explain 
the  maneuvers  to  her.  They  were  not  very  complicated, 
for  the  officers  wisely  confined  the  movements  to  pass- 
ing in  review  and  defiling,  but  although  the  drill  was 
simple,  the  lines  were  wavering  and  uneven.  There 
were  nine  batteries  of  artillery,  with  fifty-four  guns 
of  various  models,  all  new  and  in  perfect  order,  and 
three  thousand  cavalry  in  line,  only  fairly  well 
mounted,  but  all  very  dashing  and  gallant-looking. 
Ann  was  entirely  satisfied  with  the  martial  effect ;  she 
was  inclined  to  be  impatient  with  her  guardian,  when 
he  talked  of  lack  of  sufficient  training,  and  of  shoddy 
in  the  cloth  the  smart  new  uniforms  were  made  of. 

When  the  review  was  over  and  Hendricks  was  free 
163 


164  THE  CORTLANDTS 

to  join  them,  he  found  Ann  chatting,  with  smiling1 
eyes  and  lips,  with  a  slim  young  horseman  in  civilian 
dress.  As  he  approached  he  resentfully  observed  that 
they  were  talking  in  French,  and  he  marveled  at  Ann's 
ease  in  the  foreign  language.  When  her  brilliant 
glance  fell  on  her  lover,  it  seemed  to  him  that  she 
merely  included  him  in  her  general  radiant  smile.  He 
approached  sulkily  and  greeted  her  with  an  air  of 
stern  proprietorship.  The  young  Frenchman  lifted 
a  supercilious  eyebrow  at  his  manner  with  so  lovely 
a  lady. 

"How  do  you  do,  Hendricks?"  the  girl  said  de- 
murely. "I  want  to  present  you  to  the  Due  de 
Chartres."  Amazing  girl, — she  said  it  as  easily  as  if 
titles  had  slipped  from  her  tongue  ever  since  she  had 
learned  to  speak ! 

As  Hendricks  faced  his  first  duke  in  the  flesh,  he 
was  seized  by  a  paralyzing  embarrassment  that  took 
the  form  of  making  him  appear  sulkier  than  before. 
He  had  never  succeeded  in  mastering  a  foreign  tongue, 
and  he  cast  resentfully  about  in  his  small  French  vocab- 
ulary for  words  that  would  impress  the  elegant 
young  officer.  As  it  happened,  however,  he  said, — • 
"Monsieur, — "  and  halted,  for  the  lack  of  verbs. 

"It  is  my  cousin,"  Ann  murmured,  as  though  no 
warmer  tie  bound  them. 

"Ah, — your  cousin !"  Realizing  Hendricks'  embar- 
rassment, the  young  stranger  spoke  in  careful  English. 
"I  congratulate  you,  Monsieur." 

"Thank  you,"  Hendricks  blurted  out.    "Is  it  because 


FLIGHT  165 

I  am  her  cousin — or  because  I  am  going  to  marry 
her?" 

"So?"  inquired  the  Frenchman.  "In  every  way, 
then,  I  offer  you  my  felicitations !"  He  did  not  linger 
after  that,  but  rode  over  to  join  the  little  knot  of 
officers  ab(}ut  General  McClellan,  to  whom  he  had 
offered  his  services  for  the  war.  There  seemed  to 
Hendricks  to  be  a  sort  of  foreign  showiness  in  his 
manner  of  reining  in  his  spirited  horse.  He  said  so, 
insularly. 

Ann  turned  indignantly  on  him.  "Why  did  you 
have  to  spoil  it  all?"  she  demanded. 

"Didn't  you  want  him  to  know  that  we  are  en- 
gaged ?"  Hendricks'  voice  was  stern. 

"I  didn't  mind  that,  of  course, — at  least, — I  hope 
I  didn't.  .  .  .  Only  it  sounded  very  awkward, — • 
coming  out  with  it,  like  that!  Oh,  look,  Hendricks! 
There  is  Mr.  Lincoln, — in  that  carriage  with  all  those 
children!" 

She  gazed  eagerly,  and  when  the  president  returned 
Mr.  Cortlandt's  bow  she  bowed,  too,  and  squeezed  her 
guardian's  hand.  She  wished  that  she  could  salute 
him,  as  Hendricks  did. 

"I  think  he  is  splendid,"  she  declared,  flushed  with 
enthusiasm. 

That  night  the  Fifty-Fifth  New  York  entertained 
distinguished  guests  at  dinner  in  the  officers'  dining 
tent.  The  soldiers  had  hung  the  canvas  walls  with 
flags, — the  Tricolor  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  were 
crossed  fraternally, — and  the  French  cooks  of  the  regi- 


166  THE  CORTLANDTS 

ment  outdid  themselves,  for  the  President  and  Mrs. 
Lincoln  ate  with  the  officers'  mess,  together  with  a 
large  and  imposing  company.  Ann's  eyes  sparkled  as 
she  swept  into  her  place  between  the  major  and  Hen- 
dricks.  She  told  them,  turning  alertly  from  one  to 
the  other,  that  she  had  never  seen  anything  so  brilliant 
as  the  long  table.  It  was  bright  with  uniforms  and 
the  gay  toilets  of  the  ladies,  all  focussed  on  the  un- 
gainly man  in  black  civilian's  clothes  at  the  head  of 
the  tent.  The  excitement  went  to  her  head  somewhat, 
and  she  amazed  Hendricks  by  the  rapidity  and  in- 
consequence of  her  remarks. 

He  plucked  at  her  sleeve,  and  whispered,  "Ann,  you 
are  talking  too  much." 

The  girl  laughed;  her  clear  eyes  were  tranquil. 
"Nonsense,"  she  said,  "he  likes  it,  your  major." 

The  boy  leaned  forward  to  look.  It  was  true,  quite 
obviously,  for  the  man  was  looking  into  Ann's  eyes 
with  a  smiling  attention,  and  something  within  Hen- 
dricks whispered  disquietly  that  Ann  could  make  a  fool 
of  his  middle-aged  major, — he  was  all  of  thirty, — had 
she  wished. 

The  meal  was  a  miracle  of  field  cookery,  and  the 
president  dined  well.  It  was  evident  that  he  responded 
gratefully  to  this  break  in  the  solemnity  of  his  respon- 
sible days.  Hendricks  was  not  near  enough  to  hear 
what  he  was  saying,  but  he  could  catch  the  laughter 
that  followed  his  brief  remarks;  that  end  of  the  table 
was  very  gay. 

"What  can  he  be  saying,  Hendricks?"  Ann  whis- 


FLIGHT  167 

pered  to  him.  "Don't  you  wish  you  knew  ?  See  uncle 
laugh!  It  is  awfully  good  for  him.  Why  is  the 
colonel  standing  up?" 

"For  the  toast,"  Hendricks  said  importantly. 

"Oh !" 

"To  the  President  of  the  Republic.  May  he  quickly 
see  the  reestablishment  of  the  Union  under  his  admin- 
istration:— not  so  soon,  however,  but  that  the  Fifty- 
Fifth  may  have  an  opportunity  to  contribute  to  it  on 
some  field  of  honor!" 

The  regiment  rose,  shouting,  and  Ann  shot  to  her 
feet  with  a  visible  shiver  of  excitement.  She  looked 
so  pretty,  in  her  flushed  eagerness,  that  Hendricks 
missed  the  greater  part  of  the  president's  reply;  he 
only  took  in  his  closing  remarks.  "All  I  can  say  is, 
that  if  you  fight  as  well  as  you  treat  your  guests,  vic- 
tory is  assured  to  us! — And  since  the  Union  may  not 
be  reestablished  before  the  Fifty-Fifth  has  had  its  bat- 
tle,—I  drink  to  the  battle  of  the  Fifty-Fifth.  And,"  he 
added,  half  droll,  half  serious, — "I  wish  that  it  may 
be  fought  as  soon  as  possible."  Laughter,  hand- 
clapping  and  cheers  rose  clamorously  about  him  as  he 
made  his  farewells,  and  as  he  went  through  the  camp, 
those  left  behind  in  the  mess  tent  could  follow  his 
progress  by  the  shouting  of  the  soldiers. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  lingered  to  talk  commissary  with  the 
colonel,  and  the  delay  gave  Hendricks  his  opportunity. 
Ann  made  no  objections  to  being  drawn  away  from 
the  gallant  attentions  of  an  entire  mess ;  she  went,  with 
the  utmost  docility,  to  stroll  in  the  moonlight,  but  it 


168  THE  CORTLANDTS 

seemed  to  the  boy  that  she  was  strangely  quiet,  follow- 
ing so  closely  upon  her  animation  at  the  table.  He 
adroitly  drew  her  away  from  the  crowded  camp,  along 
the  edge  of  the  creek  to  a  place  where  the  trees  grew 
thick.  On  the  verge  of  the  black  shade  the  girl  paused, 
with  a  little  laugh  that  trembled. 

"Come  on,"  Hendricks  urged  impatiently.  "It  is 
pretty  here!"  He  seized  her  hands  and  pulled  her 
fforward.  "I  haven't  seen  you  all  day,"  he  complained. 

"There  hasn't  been  time,"  Ann  said  listlessly.  She 
turned  her  head  to  catch  the  chorus  of  a  song  in  the 
camp  behind  them.  "It  is  wet  here,"  she  complained, 
as  she  stepped  into  the  deeper  shade. 

Suddenly  Hendricks  flung  his  arm  around  her,  and 
crushed  her  to  him;  all  his  day's  despondency  flared 
into  a  sudden  gust  of  passion  that  surprised  him  as 
much  as  it  did  the  girl.  She  tried  to  push  him  away, 
but  in  an  instant  his  lips  found  hers  and  he  was  kissing 
her  fiercely.  When  he  let  her  go  they  were  both 
breathless. 

"Oh !"  gasped  Ann.  "How  rough  you  are !"  It  was 
not  too  dark  for  him  to  see  that  her  eyes  blazed  in 
her  white  face. 

Panic  seized  him.  "I  am  sorry,"  he  said  humbly. 
"Really,  Ann.  ...  I  didn't  mean  to." 

They  went  back  to  the  camp  at  once,  so  quickly  that 
Hendricks  had  only  an  impression  of  Ann's  flying 
draperies,  and  just  ahead  of  him,  her  profile,  cut  keen 
and  black  against  the  moonlight.  When  he  reviewed 
that  five  minutes,  after  his  uncle  had  taken  the  girl 


FLIGHT  169 

back  to  town,  he  could  not  remember  that  she  had 
spoken  at  all,  but  he  recalled  vividly,  with  a  hot  flush 
of  resentment,  how  she  had  leaped  a  tiny  brook,  rather 
than  take  his  hand.  He  told  himself,  as  he  settled 
down  to  sleep  that  night,  that  the  next  day  he  would 
get  leave  of  absence  and  make  it  up  with  her,  but 
when  he  reached  Washington,  at  noon,  he  found  that 
Ann  and  her  uncle  had  already  left  for  New  York. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CHRISTMAS  IN  WASHINGTON  SQUARE 

HENDRICKS  wrote  that  he  had  been  promised  a 
leave  of  absence  for  Christmas  long  enough  to  enable 
him  to  come  home,  and  preparations  were  made 
for  an  unprecedented  family  celebration  in  Washing- 
ton Square.  The  tree  was  taller  and  wider  flung  than 
ever  before,  and  Ann  was  determined  that  it  should 
outshine  all  previous  ones.  It  arrived  two  days  before 
Christmas,  and  at  once  she  climbed  up  on  a  high 
ladder  and  began  the  work  of  trimming  it  Fanny 
had  strung  yards  of  popcorn  and  cranberries,  which 
she  draped  from  one  branch  to  another,  and  she  her- 
self had  gilded  nuts  and  made  festoons  of  colored 
paper,  which  glittered  gaily  against  the  deep  green 
of  the  fir.  Here  and  there  she  placed  a  foolish  mar- 
tial trinket,  with  Hendricks'  name  attached,  and  on 
the  very  top  of  the  tree,  instead  of  the  usual  white- 
winged  angel,  she  fixed  a  blue-coated  soldier,  with  his 
cap  tilted  rakishly  to  one  side. 

"That's  all  right,  anyway,"  she  murmured  to  her- 
self, and  sighed.  She  made  no  move  toward  de- 
scending. It  was  warm,  up  there  near  the  ceiling, 
and  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  delicious  scent  of 
Christmas  greens.  She  sat  down  on  the  giddy  top  of 
the  ladder,  chin  in  hand,  and  plunged  into  serious 
thought.  .  .  .  Hendricks.  .  .  .  Why  couldn't 

170 


CHRISTMAS  171 

Xe,  when  she  tried  so  hard,  recapture  some  of  her 
.sarly  passion  for  him?  .  .  .  Why  should  her 
thoughts  always  stick  on  that  last  unfortunate  episode 
of  her  visit  to  Washington,  three  months  ago?  It  was 
strange  that  no  amount  of  dutiful  letter-writing  had 
served  to  overlay  it;  she  could  not  escape  from  a 
recollection  of  it,  and  a  sort  of  shuddering  fear  of 
the  future.  .  .  .  She  wished,  as  she  sat  miserably 
on  her  ladder,  that  Hendricks  were  not  an  only  nephew 
of  Mr.  Cortlandt,  She  thought  that  if  she  felt  free 
to  jilt  him,  perhaps  she  would  not  want  to.  ... 
Did  she,  she  wondered,  really  want  to  ?  She  drew  his 
ring  from  her  finger  reluctantly ;  her  hand  looked  very 
strange  and  empty  without  it.  ...  She  resolutely 
thought  of  some  other  girl  wearing  it,  her  ring,  and 
she  hastily  put  it  on  again,  overwhelmed  with  a  stub- 
born resolve  to  keep  it.  It  was  all  very  perplexing. 

The  door-bell  jingled,  and  in  a  moment  Fanny  came 
in,  her  hands  full  of  packages,  and  her  eyes  shining 
with  happiness. 

"What  a  lovely  tree!"  she  cried.  "What  beautiful 
trimmings !"  She  came  over  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder. 
"See,"  she  said,  "I've  brought  those  socks  I  have  been 
knitting  for  Hendricks, — a  half  dozen  pair  .  .  . 
and  mama's  camp  kit  .  ,  .  What  are  you  giv- 
ing him,  Ann?" 

"I  had  my  daguerreotype  taken."  Ann  catapulted 
swiftly  and  dangerously  down  the  rickety  steps,  and 
selected  a  flat  purple  velvet  case  from  the  heap  of 
presents  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  She  opened  it,  and 


172  THE  CORTLANDTS 

looked  at  it  with  some  satisfaction.  "I  look  rather  nice. 
You  would  never  know  I  had  red  hair:  Hendricks 
will  like  that,"  she  commented,  giving  it  to  Fanny. 
The  picture  showed  a  slim  and  elegant  young  creature, 
who  leaned  romantically  on  a  bit  of  rustic  fence,  and 
whose  large  eyes  were  sad. 

"I  thought  that  possibly  you  might  be  married  while 
Hendricks  is  here."  Fanny's  tone  was  indifferent. 

"No."  Ann  dropped  the  monosyllable  without  so 
much  as  a  glance. 

"Aunt  Clarissa  said  Hendricks  wanted  you  to  come 
over  and  be  married  in  camp." 

"Unfortunately  there  was  a  wedding  like  that  in  his 
regiment, — brides'  maids  and  wedding  veils,  and 
everything, — and  Hendricks  went.  He  thought  it 
was  awfully  romantic." 

"It  was." 

"I  suppose  so,  but  I  couldn't  seem  to  take  any  in- 
terest in  it." 

Fanny  shot  a  speculative  glance  at  her  friend,  and 
Ann  knew  that  she  considered  her  love-affair  but  a 
lukewarm  thing.  She  was  glad  when  Joseph  came 
into  the  room.  He  gave  her  a  telegram,  and  stood 
rolling  his  eyes  admiringly  at  the  tree. 

Ann  ripped  open  the  envelope.  "Uncle  says  I  am 
always  to  read  them,"  she  explained.  "These  days, 
he  doesn't  like  to  have  them  wait."  She  drew  out  the 
enclosure,  and  read. 

"What  is  it,  Ann?"  whispered  Fanny,  frightened 
at  the  flash  of  emotion  in  her  friend's  face. 


CHRISTMAS  173 

"Hendricks  can't  come."  She  dared  say  no  more, 
lest  her  sense  of  reprieve  should  betray  itself. 

"Can't  come  ?"  Fanny's  wailing  voice  was  desperate. 

"No.  He  says  his  furlough  has  been  canceled. 
.  .  .  Uncle  will  be  awfully  disappointed." 

"And  how  about  Hendricks?  Won't  he  be  disap- 
pointed too?  And  all  of  us?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  .  .  .  What  a  shame!"  She 
absently  fixed  a  candle  or  two  on  the  wide  branches 
of  the  tree.  "I  am  awfully  sorry,  Fanny,"  she  mur- 
mured consolingly,  after  a  moment's  preoccupation. 

At  these  words  Fanny  disconcertingly  began  to  cry ; 
she  did  not  frankly  abandon  herself  to  grief,  but  she 
did  wipe  her  eyes,  and  she  made  surreptitious  dabs  at 
her  nose,  in  a  pathetic  effort  to  conceal  her  weakness. 
Ann  refrained  from  looking  at  her,  considerately,  and 
the  difficult  moment  would  have  passed  in  comparative 
comfort,  had  not  Mrs.  Renneslyer  chosen  that  inau- 
spicious time  to  come  into  the  room. 

"Good  morning,  children,"  she  called.  "Ann,  come 
and  kiss  your  mama-that-is-to-be !  Fanny — why, 
what  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

At  this  sharp  attack,  her  niece  frankly  abandoned 
herself  to  tears;  she  sobbed  openly,  and  left  the  con- 
versational field  to  Ann. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Fanny,  Ann?" 

"I  am  sorry.  .  .  .  Hendricks  can't  come.  He 
just  telegraphed  uncle."  She  held  out  the  message, 
wondering  why  guilt,  of  all  sensations,  should  be  the 
one  to  possess  her. 


174  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"It  is  an  outrage!"  Mrs.  Renneslyer  declared. 
"Christmas  Day, — and  no  furlough !  Who  ever  heard 
of  such  a  thing?  I  wonder  what  your  uncle  will 
think  of  his  Mr.  Lincoln  now  ?"  Her  indignant  glance 
fell  on  Ann.  "You  don't  cry,  do  you?"  she  demanded 
pointedly,  as  she  searched  the  girl's  face  with  hostile 
eyes. 

"I  never  do,"  Ann  hastened  to  plead.  "Except  at 
silly  things, — the  theater,  or  a  book."  She  envied 
Fanny  her  facile  emotion. 

"Why  he  adores  you  so — "  Mrs.  Renneslyer  broke 
off,  and  sighed.  "Poor  boy, — alone,  at  this  season!" 
She  sighed  again  and  sank  down  on  the  sofa,  only  to 
spring  youthfully  to  her  feet,  almost  at  once.  "Girls — 
I  have  an  inspiration !" 

Ann  looked  up  questioningly,  and  Fanny  stayed  her 
sobs  to  listen.  "We  could  all  go  to  Washington !  We 
could  have  dinner  with  Hendricks  to-morrow!  I  am 
sure  Mr.  Lincoln  wouldn't  begrudge  him  that!" 

"Oh,  Aunt  Clarissa !"  Fanny  murmured  ecstatically. 
She  and  Mrs.  Renneslyer  both  turned  to  Ann. 

"We  might,"  the  girl  allowed,  her  mind  on  the  prac- 
tical details  of  the  migration. 

"Don't  let  your  enthusiasm  sweep  you  off  your  feet, 
Ann." 

"I  was  only  wondering  if  uncle  could  find  it  possible 
to  go." 

"Go  where?"  a  deeper  voice  broke  in.  They  all 
looked  up,  startled,  to  see  her  guardian  in  the  doorway. 

"To    Washington,    Hendricks,"    Mrs.    Renneslyer 


CHRISTMAS  175 

flung  at  him.  "We  are  all  going  over  on  the  six  o'clock 
train." 

Ann  caught  his  bewildered  glance.  "Hendricks 
can't  come,"  she  explained  again,  "and  Mrs.  Rennes- 
lyer  suggests  that  we  all  go  to  spend  Christmas  with 
him." 

The  old  man's  face  fell.  "Too  bad,"  he  said  de- 
spondently. "I  had  hoped  for  one  more  Christmas 
here  together.  .  .  .  However, — it  can't  be  helped. 
Hendricks  is  a  soldier;  he  is  not  his  own  master." 

"There  is  a  reception  at  the  White  House  on  New 
Year's  Day,  too,"  Mrs.  Renneslyer  put  in. 

"Uncle  Hendricks,  please?" 

Mr.  Cortlandt  smiled.  "You  want  to  go, — eh, 
Fanny?  How  about  it,  Ann?" 

"It  will  be  Hendricks'  last  Christmas  before  he  goes 
to  the  front,  uncle." 

"That  settles  it.  We  shall  go.  ...  Fanny, — 
run  home  and  tell  your  mother.  Clarissa, — you  would 
better  get  about  your  packing,  and  make  sure  that 
Theodore  knows  the  train  time,  so  that  if  he  misses 
it,  you  can  have  the  satisfaction  of  putting  him  in  the 
wrong!  Ann,  what  shall  we  do  with  our  tree?" 

"Could  I  send  it  to  the  hospital?" 

He  laughed  at  her  vivid  eagerness.  "How  did  you 
ever  happen  to  think  of  that?"  he  teased  her  smilingly, 
but  his  sister  tossed  her  head  impatiently,  and  Ann 
knew  that  she  would  have  preferred  to  see  her  oblivi- 
ous to  everything  but  the  expected  meeting. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  went  immediately  to  his  office,  as  he 


176  THE  CORTLANDTS 

had  arrangements  to  make  before  leaving  town  so 
unexpectedly,  and  it  was  arranged  that  they  would  all 
meet  at  the  ferry  in  time  for  the  train.  There  were 
many  things  for  Ann  to  attend  to;  she  wrapped  pres- 
ents and  such  Christmas  goodies  as  might  be  trans- 
ported, with  enthusiastic  expedition,  before  she  turned 
to  her  personal  packing. 

As  she  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  room  she  was  aware 
of  a  sudden  drop  in  her  spirits,  and  her  feet  lagged. 
"Washington,"  she  murmured  to  herself.  "Hum." 
This  time  she  was  fairly  caught.  Her  trunk  was  wait- 
ing for  her;  she  took  out  her  dresses  and  laid  them 
on  the  bed  as  a  preliminary  to  packing,  and  there,  in 
the  depths  of  her  closet,  hung  the  very  yellow  taffeta 
she  had  last  worn  on  the  day  of  General  McQellan's 
review.  She  looked  at  it  with  startled  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  the  whole  distressing  fiasco  of  her  disillu- 
sionizing visit  flashed  vividly  before  her.  All  at  once 
she  knew  that  nothing  would  make  her  go  to  Wash- 
ington. She  carefully  rehung  her  dresses  in  the  closet, 
one  by  one,  and  shut  the  door  firmly  upon  them; 
then  she  sat  down  to  think. 

When  Fanny  came  hurrying  in,  an  hour  later,  to 
see  if  her  friend  was  ready,  she  found  Ann  in  bed, 
with  the  covers  tucked  under  her  chin,  and  a  wet  towel 
bound  around  her  forehead.  "Isn't  it  a  pity?"  she 
murmured  faintly;  "I  am  not  able  to  go." 

"Ann!  You  must  come!  Hendricks  will  be  dis- 
appointed." 


CHRISTMAS  177 

"It  breaks  my  heart  not  to  spend  Christmas  with 
uncle,"  Ann  said  truthfully,  "but  it  can't  be  helped." 

Mrs.  William  Cortlandt  came  panting  up-stairs  to 
see  what  caused  the  delay,  but  even  her  efficient  sug- 
gestions were  useless,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  gave 
up,  and  hurried  off  to  the  ferry.  The  girl  lay  where 
she  left  her,  looking  up  at  the  ceiling  with  wide  and 
miserable  eyes. 

The  next  morning  she  was  miraculously  better,  and 
she  told  Joseph  that  she  would  spend  the  day  in 
the  hospital.  In  the  cold  light  of  the  winter  morning 
her  emotion  of  the  night  seemed  childish,  and  she  came 
very  near  sinking  back  into  the  comfortable  belief  that 
she  must  care  for  Hendricks,  because  she  was  engaged 
to  marry  him.  She  was  disposed  to  regret  having 
missed  the  gaiety  of  a  trip  to  the  capital. 

On  her  way  along  the  Square,  after  her  lonely 
breakfast,  something  happened  to  disturb  this  pleasant 
serenity;  it  was  an  incident  trivial  enough  in  itself, 
but  sufficiently  upsetting  to  Ann  to  amount  to  an  ad- 
venture. On  the  corner  of  the  little  park,  where  the 
paths  met,  she  came  face  to  face  with  a  young  man. 
She  had  been  subconsciously  aware  of  his  approach, 
but  she  did  not  notice  him  particularly  until  he  was 
almost  upon  her;  then  she  took  in  the  fact  that  he 
was  a  well  set  up  youth,  with  eyes  made  bold  by  an 
evident  admiration  of  her.  Their  glances  clashed, 
Ann  automatically  looked  away  and  passed  on.  Into 
her  mind  flashed  the  unbidden  thought,  "I'd  rather 


178  THE  CORTLANDTS 

marry  him  than  Hendricks !"  It  was  nothing ;  it  was 
less  than  nothing, — and  yet  to  the  girl  the  vagrant 
disloyalty  was  startling;  it  amounted  almost  to  in- 
fidelity. She  felt  miserably  unworthy  of  Hendricks' 
single-minded  affection,  but  in  a  curious  fashion  this 
acknowledgment  of  guilt  made  her  cling  to 'him  the 
more,  in  a  futile  desire  to  make  it  up  to  him.  She  was, 
however,  suddenly  glad,  after  all,  that  she  had  not  gone 
to  Washington. 

She  was  warmly  welcomed  at  the  hospital,  as  the 
other  volunteer  women  were,  in  the  holiday  season, 
devoting  themselves  to  their  families,  and  the  sick  men 
were  forlorn  enough  until  Ann  appeared,  her  eyes 
shining  with  the  delight  of  giving  so  much  pleasure. 
She  set  up  her  tree  in  the  hall  where  all  the  conva- 
lescents might  see  it,  and  even  the  men  in  beds  on  the 
first  floor  could  catch  a  festive  glimpse  of  it,  through 
open  doors.  On  Christmas  Eve  they  had  a  fine  cele- 
bration, and  Ann  felt  that  never  before  had  she  known 
such  complete  "good  will  toward  men." 

The  next  morning  she  was  back  at  her  post  again, 
and  her  cheerful  "Merry  Christmas"  was  echoed  en- 
thusiastically up  and  down  the  wards.  She  ate  her 
luncheon  with  the  convalescents,  sharing  with  them  the 
multitude  of  good  things  that  had  been  prepared  for 
the  Cortlandt  family  celebration,  and  she  did  not  go 
home  until  late,  for,  as  the  night  approached,  she  hated 
'to  return  to  her  empty  house.  As  she  ran  up  the  front 
steps  she  smiled  to  see  that  the  lights  were  brilliant. 
"Good  old  Joseph!"  she  thought,  as  she  rang.  She 


CHRISTMAS  179 

could  hear  the  fire  crackling  when  the  door  opened, 
and  she  followed  the  cheerful  sound;  standing  on  the 
hearth  in  the  library  was  Mr.  Cortlandt,  smiling  at 
her  amazement. 

"Uncle !"  she  gasped,  as  she  flung  her  arms  around 
him.  "I  was  so  lonely!" 

"Did  you  think  I  would  leave  you  all  alone  for 
Christmas  ?" 

"But — didn't  you  go  to  Washington,  either  ?" 

"I  did, — and  I  saw  Hendricks,  which  was  my  only 
object  in  going.  .  .  He  spent  the  evening  with  us, 
and  I  came  home  on  the  midnight  train.  ...  I 
told  Joseph  to  have  an  especially  fine  supper — " 

"Oh,  uncle!"  gasped  Ann,  horror-struck.  "I  have 
given  away  every  single  thing  in  the  house !" 

"So  he  said,"  the  old  man  returned,  smiling.  "And 
we  are  to  eat  a  Christmas  dinner  composed  of  warmed- 
over  chicken!  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  am  so  sorry!" 

"Nonsense !  Joseph  is  to  open  a  bottle  of  that  last 
champagne  I  had  out  from  France,  and  I  bought  some 
flowers  for  the  table,  as  I  came  through  town.  .  .  . 
Run  and  put  on  your  prettiest  dress ! — No,  don't  thank 
me  for  coming.  I  am  just  a  very  selfish  old  man.  I 
wanted  to  eat  my  Christmas  dinner  with  my  girl!" 

Joseph  had  set  their  places  at  a  small  table  drawn 
close  to  the  fire  in  the  shadowy  library,  and  they  were 
very  gay,  in  spite  of  the  depleted  menu. 

"Do  you  remember,  my  dear,  your  first  Christmas?" 

Ann's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears.     "Do  I  re- 


i8o  THE  CORTLANDTS 

member?"  she  echoed.  "It  was  after  my  mother  had 
sailed,  but  before  we  heard — "  she  broke  off,  shivering 
a  little.  "What  a  forlorn  thing  I  was,  uncle, — and 
how  wonderfully  good  you  were  to  me!  .  .  . 
Those  days!  I  can  remember  how  frightened  I  was 
all  the  time,  until  you  came  home!"  She  reached 
across  the  table  and  squeezed  his  hand  affectionately. 

When  Joseph  poured  the  champagne  Mr.  Cortlandt 
told  him  to  fill  a  glass  for  Ann,  too,  and  he  gave  her 
the  toast,  "Our  soldiers,  Ann, — a  merry  Christmas  to 
them !  And  to  our  country, — and  victory !" 

They  drank  it,  eye  to  eye  across  the  narrow  table, 
and  then  they  sat  down  to  their  creamed  chicken  and 
sausage.  Mr.  Cortlandt  exerted  himself  to  be  amus- 
ing; it  was  a  long  time  since  they  had  been  so  gay, 
and  they  decided,  over  their  simple  dessert,  that  this 
was,  after  all,  the  best  Christmas  of  them  all.  It  was 
not  until  after  dinner,  as  they  sat  before  the  library 
fire,  that  they  touched  on  the  subject  of  Hendricks. 

"The  boy  looks  well,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  said,  his  eyes 
on  Ann's  face.  "He  seems  older,  and  he  is  doing 
good  work;  there  is  no  doubt  about  his  being  an  ex- 
cellent soldier.  I  am  very  proud  of  him." 

"I  am  so  glad,"  the  girl  murmured  softly. 

"He  was  sorry  not  to  see  you." 

Ann's  face  clouded.     "I  suppose  so,"  she  said. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,  my  dear.  Will  you 
answer  it?" 

Ann  threw  him  a  nervous  glance.  "Of  course  I 
will." 


CHRISTMAS  181 

"Did  you  really  have  a  headache?" 

She  flinched  back  into  her  chair,  but  her  eyes  met 
his  squarely,  as  she  shook  her  head. 

"Didn't  you  want  to  see  Hendricks?" 

"I  am  not  sure  I  care  for  him,  uncle.  .  .  .  And 
I  am  not  sure  I  don't" 

"But,"  Mr.  Cortlandt  interposed  reasonably,  "you 
seemed  greatly  attached  to  him  when  he  went  away." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  It's  when  he  comes  home  that  I 
am  not  so  sure." 

"I  am  sorry,  my  dear.  When  you  first  became  en- 
gaged to  my  nephew  I  was  not  too  well  pleased, — but 
now !  In  God's  name,  Ann, — if  you  loved  him  when 
he  was  a  conceited  puppy  from  school,  why  can't  you 
love  him  now  that  he  promises  to  make  a  fine  officer  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  do.     ...     I  can't  be  sure." 

That  ended  the  matter.  Ann  couldn't  be  sure,  and 
that  was  all  there  was  to  be  said.  The  cozy  Christ- 
mas evening  ended  in  rather  a  chill  of  disappointment. 

Late  in  February  Hendricks  obtained  a  second  leave 
of  absence  in  order  to  come  to  New  York,  and  only 
Mr.  Cortlandt's  decided  refusal  to  countenance  it  kept 
Mrs.  Renneslyer  from  clamoring  for  a  hasty  wedding 
while  her  son  was  at  home.  Ann  received  the  news 
of  his  arrival  with  the  proper  expressions  of  pleasure, 
but  her  guardian  thought  that  her  enthusiasm  was 
forced,  and  her  sudden  nervous  docility  depressed  him. 
He  had  an  amazing  sense  of  relief  when  a  second  tele- 
gram announced  that  the  regiment  was  at  last  ordered 


182  THE  CORTLANDTS 

to  break  camp,  and  that  Hendricks'  furlough  had  again 
been  canceled. 

"Off  to  the  front!"  The  whole  family  thrilled  to 
the  words,  in  common  with  an  anxious  country,  re- 
lieved to  see  action  at  last,  in  the  long  dormant  Army 
of  the  Potomac.  The  New  York  papers  were  rilled 
with  reports  of  the  home  regiments,  and  Ann  was  able, 
day  by  day,  to  trace  Hendricks'  progress  through  the 
enemy's  country.  As  a  delayed  and  reluctant  spring 
rushed  into  a  hot  summer,  she  learned  the  dismal 
trick  of  searching  the  published  list  of  the  dead, 
wounded  and  missing,  but  the  casualties  of  the  Fifty- 
Fifth  were  light  in  its  early  engagements.  At  inter- 
vals letters  came  through  from  Hendricks,  who 
seemed  much  more  concerned  over  a  shortage  of  tents 
than  he  was  at  having  been  under  fire.  He  hated  the 
hot  southern  summer,  and  the  dried-up  southern  fall, 
but  time  passed  and  he  remained  unscathed.  It  seemed 
a  miracle  to  Ann,  who  saw  so  many  wounded  men  in 
the  hospital  that  it  was  incredible  to  her  any  one 
should  escape. 

She  continued  her  work.  As  the  numbers  of  sick 
men  doubled,  she  doubled  her  efforts;  there  seemed  no 
end  to  her  vitality,  no  limit  to  her  capacity  to  serve. 
Hendricks,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  so  long,  became 
a  more  and  more  unreal  lover,  but  her  engagement 
was  not  the  more  desirable  to  her  because  of  that. 
She  tried  not  to  think  of  it,  as  the  months  ran  on. 


CHAPTER  XV 

DENSLEY    HOWARD 

IT  WAS  a  morning  almost  like  summer,  in  the  early 
spring  of  1863.  The  sunlight  was  as  warm  as  a 
friendly  hand,  but  in  the  shade  a  thin  disagreeable 
coldness  lurked.  Ann  lingered  on  the  hospital  door- 
step, deep,  under  its  portico,  in  wintry  shadow; 
she  looked  reluctantly  back  at  the  shining  streets  and 
up  at  the  sky,  high,  faintly  blue,  and  delightfully 
empty.  She  would  like  her  life  to  be  like  that,  she 
though,  remote  and  beautiful. 

She  was  enormously  tired,  after  two  years  of  doing- 
the  same  dreary  thing  day  after  day;  her  very  soul 
was  weary  of  illness  and  of  pain.  Routine  was  always 
the  thing  she  found  most  difficult  to  bear,  and  there 
is  no  routine  more  rigid  than  that  which  prevails  in 
a  hospital.  Ann  sometimes  thought  that  she  would 
not  be  so  rebellious  with  it,  had  her  life  outside  been 
diversified, — but  there,  too,  nothing  happened.  Mr. 
Cortlandt  was  overworked  and  weary,  and  Hendricks 
had  never  once,  in  the  two  years  since  his  reenlistment, 
been  able  to  get  a  leave  of  absence  long  enough  for  a 
visit  to  New  York.  Every  Sunday  morning  she  wrote 
to  him,  with  painstaking  regularity, — that,  too,  had 
become  a  routine, — and  now  and  then  answers  came 
through ;  it  was  her  custom  to  pass  these  letters  of  his 

183 


184  THE  CORTLANDTS 

about  the  family  circle,  for  her  lover  was  a  temperate 
writer;  there  were  no  intimacies  for  her  eyes  alone. 

She  sighed,  and  opened  the  door.  A  rush  of  bad  ait- 
swept  out  at  her,  and  the  gloom  of  the  hallway  yawned 
before  her.  Ann  shook  herself  petulantly.  "If  some- 
thing would  only  happen,"  she  murmured,  half 
aloud. 

The  first  doctor  she  met  said  to  her,  "Miss  Byrne, 
have  you  seen  our  new  patient?" 

Ann  shook  her  head,  and  he  lead  her  across  the 
ward  to  point  out  a  man  who  had  been  brought  in 
during  the  night. 

"From  Libby  Prison,"  he  explained  briefly. 

The  girl's  eyes  opened  wide;  this  was  a  dramatic 
happening.  "From  Libby!"  she  exclaimed,  and  moved 
eagerly  forward.  He  was  the  first  man  to  be  received 
at  the  hospital  from  the  plague  spot  of  Richmond ;  she 
bent  commiseratingly  over  him,  as  he  lay,  white  and 
apparently  unconscious,  on  his  cot.  "Poor  fellow," 
she  murmured,  "he  looks  very  ill." 

The  doctor  nodded.  .  .  .  "He  was  a  bad  ex- 
change," he  said  brutally.  "We  can't  pull  him  through, 
I  am  afraid.  .  .  .  He  was  unconscious  when  he 
came  in  from  the  train." 

Ann  studied  the  emaciated  face  on  the  pillow,  and 
thought  that,  in  all  her  experience  in  the  hospitals,  she 
had  never  seen  any  one  in  a  more  forlorn  condition 
than  this  newcomer.  He  was,  in  the  first  place,  thin 
beyond  belief ;  his  cheek-bones  stuck  out  like  headlands 
above  a  rough  blond  beard,  and  below  it,  the  chords 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  185 

of  his  throat  showed  pitifully.  His  face  was  very 
white,  under  its  grime  of  travel;  he  might  easily  have 
been  dead  as  he  lay  there,  and  Ann  put  out  a  fright- 
ened hand,  and  pushed  the  fair  hair  back  from  his 
wasted  temples.  His  skin  was  hot  to  the  touch,  and 
with  the  hair  swept  back,  his  face  looked  young  and 
weak,  in  its  defenselessness.  Her  touch  roused  the 
man,  and  suddenly  his  eyes  opened  wide  for  a  moment. 
They  seemed  enormous,  in  his  dead-white  face,  and 
they  were  deliciously,  penetratingly,  blue.  His  lips 
parted,  and  drew  down  in  the  ghost  of  a  cynical  smile. 

"I  never  felt  softer  ones,"  he  murmured. 

Ann  retreated  swiftly,  but  the  nameless  patient 
had  already  lapsed  back  into  unconsciousness. 

All  day  she  had  him  in  her  mind,  as  she  went  about 
her  round  of  duties;  it  was  extraordinary  how  often 
she  contrived  to  pass  the  cot  where  he  lay.  He  was 
less  forlorn  when  he  had  been  washed  and  brushed; 
she  almost  thought  that  there  was  something  familiar 
about  him,  and  she  hoped,  quite  foolishly  and  femi- 
ninely, that  those  very  blue  eyes  were  not  destined  to 
close  forever.  Shortly  after  noon  he  revived  again, 
and  a  little  brandy  was  put  between  his  passive  lips. 
Ann  stole  over  to  watch  the  effect:  she  was  near 
enough  to  hear  quite  distinctly  his  protesting  mur- 
mur, "That's  a  damn  bad  liquor!"  and  she  ran  to  the 
office  to  get  him  a  bottle  of  especially  good  old  stock 
provided  by  her  guardian.  A  second  spoonful  of  this 
stirred  him  to  something  resembling  a  faint  vitality. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Ann's  and  said  amiably : 


i86  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"You'll  have  me  as  drunk  as  a  lord,  if  you  give 
ihe  much  of  that  on  an  empty  stomach." 

"I'll  get  you  something  to  eat,"  she  volunteered 
eagerly. 

The  man  frowned  impatiently.  "It  is  easier  not," 
he  murmured. 

"I'll  feed  you,"  Ann  offered.  She  commandeered 
a  bowl  of  soup  from  a  passing  nurse. 

Her  patient  obviously  did  not  want  the  soup,  and 
equally  obviously,  disliked  to  say  so,  in  the  face  of 
Ann's  eager  helpfulness;  it  was  an  unfair  advantage 
that  she  often  used,  and  now  she  made  him  take 
almost  the  entire  bowlful. 

When  she  finally  desisted,  and  the  man  lay  flat  again, 
exhausted  by  the  little  effort  of  lifting  his  head,  he 
said  politely,  "Thank  you.  ...  I  wish  I  felt  the 
way  you  look." 

"The  way  I  look?"  she  repeated  encouragingly. 
She  wanted  him  to  talk. 

The  soup  was  having  its  effect,  and  there  was  more 
strength  to  his  voice  as  he  said,  "You  are  the  most 
living  thing  I  ever  saw.  .  .  .  You  can't  imagine, 
• — after  Libby, — to  find — you!"  Under  his  steady 
gaze  Ann  played  nervously  and  aimlessly  with  his 
bowl  and  spoon.  "Do  you  mind  telling  me  where  I 
am?"  he  went  on,  affably. 

"You  are  in  an  army  hospital,  in  New  York." 

"New  York?  ...  It  goes  to  prove  what  I 
have  always  said, — the  place  has  no  atmosphere.  .  .  . 
P::t  me  in  Paris,  dying,  and  I'd  know, — and  hate 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  187 

to  die!  ...  Or  Florence, — there'd  be  something 
there  to  whisper  to  my  spirit,  and  keep  me  happy  to 
the  verge.  .  .  .  Well, — 'this  is  my  own,  my  na- 
tive land!'" 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  your  name." 

"Densley  Howard." 

"Oh !"  There  was  a  startled  note  in  Ann's  exclama- 
tion, but  after  her  first  instinctive  movement  she  did 
not  draw  back.  Instead  she  met  his  eyes  bravely  and- 
smiled,  albeit  a  bit  unnaturally.  "We  are  neighbors," 
she  said. 

"Are  we?"  his  tone  was  indifferent. 

"I  am  Hendricks  Cortlandt's  niece." 

Howard  smiled  in  his  turn,  polite,  but  wan.  "I  re- 
member," he  said.  "The  red-haired  little  devil  who 
used  to  shy  stones  at  my  horse,  when  the  governess 
wasn't  looking!"  He  closed  his  eyes  on  that  quite 
definitely,  and  almost  immediately  he  was  asleep. 

Ann  stood  gazing  gravely  down  on  him.  He  didn't, 
she  reflected,  look  bad.  He  looked,  instead,  although 
the  girl  did  not  know  it,  like  a  stricken  Saint  Michael, 
or  an  exhausted,  defeated,  Saint  John.  .  .  .  He 
looked  extraordinarily  young,  too.  She  knew  him  to 
be  at  least  ten  years  her  senior,  and  his  reference  to 
the  past  brought  up  a  contrasting  picture  of  a  slim 
young  god  on  a  too-spirited  horse,  whose  Byronic  good 
looks  were  a  subject  of  alarm  to  the  mothers  in  Wash- 
ington Square.  .  .  .  She  remembered  vague  but 
persistent  rumors  of  mysterious  deeds.  .  .  .  He 
was,  in  the  language  of  the  Square,  "wild."  .  .  . 


i88  THE  CORTLANDTS 

She  wondered.  .  .  .  He  didn't  look  wild, — she 
thought  he  had  a  look  of  almost  boyish  sweetness. 
.  .  .  He  had  lived  for  years  in  Europe,  and  she 
recalled  a  chance  grim  comment  of  her  guardian's  that 
that  was  the  best  place  for  him.  .  .  .  She  had 
heard  that  he  had  come  home  to  join  the  Union  Army, 
but  she  had  carelessly  acquiesced  in  Mrs.  William's 
decision  that  this  rumor  of  white  deeds  on  the  part 
of  a  black  sheep  could  not  be  authentic.  .  .  .  And 
now,  here  he  was,  one  of  the  first  victims  of  Libby 
Prison.  Surely,  nothing  else  mattered,  and  she  didn't 
care  if  it  did! 

The  next  morning  she  found  the  hospital  ringing 
with  his  exploits.  "What  do  you  think  he  made  me 
do!"  a  nurse  demanded  of  Ann.  "He  made  me  bring 
in  a  barber  to  shave  him,  and  he  dying  as  he  lies  there ! 
He  has  had  his  beard  all  taken  off.  .  .  .  He  ar- 
ranged with  the  man  to  come  every  day,  and  joked 
with  him  about  shaving  him  after  he  was  dead !" 

"He  must  be  better." 

"He  is,  but  he's  none  too  strong." 

Nevertheless  the  newcomer  hailed  her  weakly,  as 
she  would  have  passed  his  cot  with  only  a  shy  smile. 
He  looked  like  a  stranger,  with  his  lean  jaws  close 
shaven;  his  eyes  were  enormous,  and  smudged  in 
with  black  shadows. 

"Haven't  you  been  brought  up  to  say  good  morn- 
ing?" he  demanded,  gaily. 

Ann  paused,  while  she  solemnly  selected  a  carnation 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  189 

pink  from  the  handful  she  carried.  She  had  chosen  to 
put  on  a  new  dress  that  day,  and  it  was  vastly  becom- 
ing to  her.  "I  brought  you  this,"  she  said,  smiling 
tentatively  as  she  went  to  lay  her  flower  on  the  table 
beside  his  bed. 

Unexpectedly,  he  caught  her  fingers,  and  she  could 
feel  that  his  were  ominously  hot.  "Thank  you/'  he 
said.  When  she  would  have  withdrawn  her  hand,  he 
drew  it  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 

The  girl's  eyes  widened,  and  she  caught  her  fingers 
away  tempestuously,  but  in  the  face  of  Howard's  ap- 
parent innocent  pleasure  in  his  friendly  act  she  felt 
that  she  was  being  gauche  and  awkward,  so  she  said 
nothing.  She  told  herself  that  this  gallantry  was  usual 
in  those  European  countries  he  had  frequented. 

"Do  you  know,"  the  young  man  went  smoothly  on, 
"I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you?"  He  paused, 
and  Ann's  grave  eyes  interrogated  him.  "In  the  night, 
when  I  didn't  sleep,  I  lay  and  thought  about  you. 
.  .  .  You  came  in  here,  when  I  was  just  decently 
dying, — when  I  thought  this  business  of  life  was  all 
over, — and  willed  me  to  live.  ...  I  couldn't  go 
on  dying,  after  that,  without  being  rude  to  you !" 

"I  am  glad  you  have  such  good  manners,"  Ann  ven- 
tured shakily. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  you,  I'd  be  in  a  long  pine  box  by 
this  time,  and  my  good  brother  Willy  would  be  order- 
ing mourning  with  a  silver  lining.  .  .  .  Well,  you 
willed  me  to  live, — and  I  don't  even  know  your  name !" 


190  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Ami  Byrne." 

"Ann.  .  .  .  It's  rather  sweet.  .  .  .  Well, 
Ann,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  me?" 

Ann  hesitated.  She  looked  deliberately  up  and 
down  the  ward,  gray  white  and  dreary  in  the  light  that 
came  through  rain-lashed  windows.  The  patients 
were  many  of  them  asleep,  in  postures  of  uncouth 
abandonment:  there  a  man  with  a  week's  old  beard 
snored  with  startling  fitfulness,  and  here  a  giant  from 
the  Far  West  alternately  cursed  and  blessed  the  at- 
tendant who  changed  his  dressings.  More  keenly  than 
ever  before  during  her  two  years  of  service,  she  real- 
ized that  illness  is  not  attractive.  Her  glance  dropped 
to  Densley  Howard,  and  their  eyes  met.  He  held  her 
for  a  breathless  moment;  she  could  not  have  looked 
away  if  she  would.  "I  wish,"  she  said  unsteadily, 
"that  I  could  take  you  away  from  this  horrid  place." 

"I  wish  you  might.  It's  beautiful  of  you  to  think 
of  anything  so  delightful."  Densley's  eyes  and  lips 
were  transfigured  by  the  sweetness  of  his  smile,  and 
for  a  moment  neither  of  them  spoke.  "We'll  just 
have  to  make  the  best  of  it  here,"  he  declared  at  length. 
"Will  you  spend  hours, — every  day, — talking  to  me?" 

Ann  nodded,  breathless  at  the  thought. 

"If  I  can  only  manage  not  to  bore  you !" 

He  managed  this  with  ease.  Interested  Ann 
might  be,  startled  at  his  fitful  tendernesses,  or  piqued 
at  his  sudden  indifferences,  but  bored — never.  At  first, 
when  his  weakness  was  pathetically  apparent,  she 
bullied  him  shamelessly,  and  he  submitted  with  a  touch- 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  191 

ing  docility.  His  nurse  little  suspected  that  his  oblig- 
ing appetite  was  due  to  the  fact  that  Ann  had  threat- 
ened not  to  sit  with  him  unless  he  ate  what  they 
brought  him;  he  doggedly  consumed  fresh  eggs  and 
warm  milk,  and  his  reward  was  a  dozen  fleeting  inter- 
views during  the  day.  Ann  made  a  prodigious  num- 
ber of  excuses  for  passing  his  bed,  and  pausing.  They 
discussed  the  most  commonplace  things,  but  Howard 
managed  to  give  a  new  significance  to  them. 

"The  sun  is  out  bright,  isn't  it  ?"  he  said  one  shining 
morning  after  a  rain.  "I  suppose  those  red  brick 
houses  in  the  Square  are  soft  and  pink  as  a  foreign 
plaster.  They  always  had  a  fine  texture."  They  had, 
Ann  observed  on  her  way  home  that  night,  but  she 
had  never  noticed  it  before.  She  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment in  front  of  Densley's  house,  closed  since  the 
death  of  his  father,  years  before,  and  she  nodded  and 
smiled  at  the  old  nurse-caretaker,  in  an  upper  window. 
She  knew  all  about  her,  and  her  old-time  affection  for 
Densley,  for  as  she  sat  beside  his  bed  they  talked 
sometimes  of  his  boyhood,  and  even  revived  her  scanty 
memories  of  Milton  Center,  and  her  unimportant 
childhood  there. 

"I  don't  remember  much  about  it,"  she  confessed. 
"There  was  Mrs.  Allen,  of  course, — and  there  was  a 
boy  named  Peter.  .  .  .  He  kissed  me  once." 

Densley  lifted  a  startled  face.  "The  dickens  he 
did!"  he  exclaimed,  and  his  eyes  met  hers  intently. 
"How  did  he  happen  to  do  that  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Ann  said  demurely.     "I  don't  seem 


192  [THE  CORTLANDTS 

to  remember  much  of  anything  else  about  him.  .  .  . 
I  know  there  was  arbutus  in  the  woods  at  this  time 
of  the  year,  though, — and  checker  berries,  too." 

"I  think,"  Howard  commented  dryly,  "that  I  am 
more  interested  in  the  fauna  than  the  flora."  It  was 
true  however;  her  richer  later  life  had  wiped  out  the 
recollection  of  her  simple  early  experiences. 

Densley  Howard  had  not  been  in  the  hospital  many 
days  when  Ann  began  to  be  miserably  aware  of  the 
possible  comment  on  her  devotion  to  him.  She  caught 
herself  wondering  if  the  men  in  the  neighboring  cots 
•were  gossiping  about  it,  and  now  and  then  she  raised 
her  voice  in  order  that  they  might  realize  how  innocu- 
ous their  conversation  was.  She  suspected  the  busy 
nurses  of  undue  interest,  and,  such  was  the  state  of 
self -consciousness  her  sense  of  guilt  plunged  her  into, 
she  kept  a  wary  eye  on  the  door  in  anticipation  of  a 
visit  of  inspection  from  Mrs.  William.  Every  morn- 
ing and  night  she  looked  with  increasing  interest  at 
Densley's  empty  house,  two  doors  away  down  the 
Square.  A  delightful  plan  half  formulated  itself  in  her 
bright  head,  and  she  wished  that  her  guardian  were  at 
home,  so  that  she  might  discuss  it  with  him;  but  the 
president  had  sent  for  him,  and  he  was  in  Washington, 
sitting  in  daily  conferences  on  the  strained  relationship 
between  the  United  States  and  England.  The  girl 
was,  for  the  time  being,  her  own  mistress. 

She  did  not  mention  her  misgivings  to  Howard,  for 
so  complete  was  her  respect  for  his  sophistication  that 
she  feared  he  might  think  her  ridiculous.  Somehow 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  193 

she  felt  that  he  was  above  the  gossip  of  his  associates, 
— or  possibly  inured  to  it.  ...  Instead,  she  told 
him  that  she  had  seen  his  old  nurse,  and  that  once 
she  had  gone  in  through  the  creaking  front  door  to 
tell  her  that  "Mr.  Densley"  was  better. 

"You  are  better,  you  know,"  she  added  happily. 

Howard  shrugged  one  thin  shoulder  under  the 
blankets.  "I  have  a  reprieve,"  he  said  lightly. 

"Maggie  is  sure  that  if  you  would  only  go  home 
you  would  get  well  at  once,"  she  ventured. 

"Home  ?  You  mean  to  Washington  Square  ?  Back 
to  the  house  I  was  born  in?  That  would  be — com- 
plete." 

"Of  course,"  Ann  said  indifferently,  "you  would  be 
— my  neighbor." 

Howard  caught  her  glance,  and  held  it:  she  had 
never  known  anything  like  the  breathless  intimacy  of 
his  look.  When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  dreamily 
reminiscent.  "Ever  since  I  went  abroad  to  live,"  he 
said,  "I  have  wandered  about,  looking  for  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world, — just  then, — and  when 
I  thought  I  had  found  it,  I  always  settled  down  to 
live  near  it.  ...  I  should  like  to  live  near  you." 

"You  might  be  lonely  there."  Ann's  look  skilfully 
included  the  harassing  nearness  of  his  fellow-patients. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  wouldn't  come  to  see 
me?" 

Ann  hesitated.  The  fright  in  his  voice  was  too 
delicious  to  soothe  immediately.  "I  shouldn't  be  al- 
lowed to,"  she  said  demurely. 


I94  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Mr.  Cortlandt?" 

"He  might  let  me  come, — but  he  is  in  Washington. 
.  .  .  He  won't  be  at  home  again  for  two  weeks." 

"Two  weeks !  It  will  be  all  over  for  me  before  that ! 
.  .  .  But  it  would  be  a  good  finish.  .  .  .  You 
could  confess  when  he  comes  home, — confessions  are 
good  for  the  souls  of  guardians,  too." 

"Do  you  mean — that  you — are  going — to  die  ?" 

Howard  nodded.  "A  campaign  and  Libby  weren't 
just  the  best  things  in  the  world  for  a  constitution 
like  mine,  I  imagine.  .  .  .  My  mother  died  of 
Jung  fever,  too.  .  .  .  She  was  years  younger 
than  I.  ...  But  we  won't  talk  about  it." 

"No,"  cried  Ann,  "and  we  won't  think  of  it !  You 
shall  get  well!" 

Howard's  tender  gaze  quieted  her.  "I'll  get  out 
of  this  place,  at  any  rate,"  he  said,  throwing  all  the 
energy  he  had  into  his  voice,  "and  you  shall  do  your 
best  to  make  my  ugly  house  cheerful.  I'll  give  you 
carte  blanche, — you  shall  spend  a  fortune  in  paint  and 
flowers, — we'll  show  Willy  money  can  fly,  before  he 
gets  it  all!  Will  you,  Ann?"  He  stretched  out  his 
hand,  and  clasped  her  nervous  fingers.  "Will  you?" 

Her  eyes  widened  eagerly.  "Oh,  I  should  just  love 
to!"  she  said  childishly. 

"And  you  will  come  to  see  me, — every  day?  For 
hours?" 

The  girl  smiled  down  at  him;  her  expression  was 
suddenly  mature, — almost  maternal.  "Of  course  I 
will,"  she  said. 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  195 

Densley's  face  lighted  like  a  boy's.  "I  knew  you  had 
a  capacity  for  rebellion !"  he  said  gaily,  and  Ann  was 
immediately  thankful  for  the  luckless  trait  of  her 
refractory  girlhood.  It  was  not  an  entirely  simple 
decision  for  her  to  have  made,  as  Densley  seemed  so 
easily  to  assume:  she  foresaw  a  family  condemna- 
tion more  severe  than  any  she  had  yet  evoked,  when 
it  should  become  known  that  she  was  making  daily 
visits  to  Densley  Howard,  once  the  scapegoat  of  Wash- 
ington Square! 

"Tell  me,"  he  questioned,  "don't  you  rather  enjoy 
feeling  wicked?" 

She  swallowed  her  qualms,  and  nodded.  "I  am 
afraid  I  do!"  she  confessed. 

It  was  Ann  who  consulted  the  doctor  about  the 
move,  and  to  her  consternation  he  confirmed  Densley's 
hopeless  prediction.  "I  doubt  if  it  would  hurt  him 
to  go,"  he  said.  "Of  course  he  understands  that  he 
may  die  any  day, — or  possibly  live  for  a  month  or 
six  weeks.  .  .  .  If  he  wants  to  go  home  I  think 
he  may, — and  we  can  always  use  his  cot  here." 

The  girl  hesitated  no  longer;  if  Howard  had  only 
a  few  weeks  to  live,  she  determined  to  make  them  as 
much  to  his  liking  as  she  could. 

He  told  her  what  he  wanted  done  to  the  house: 
it  seemed  to  Ann  clear  madness  to  remove  the  rich  imi- 
tation red  velvet  paper  from  the  walls  of  the  dignified 
front  room  where  old  Mr.  Howard  had  set  up  his  black 
walnut  bedroom  set,  and  lived  and  died  in  airless 
luxury;  but  in  the  face  of  Densley  Howard's  desire  to 


196  THE  CORTLANDTS 

reproduce,  as  nearly  as  possible,  some  clearly  ugly  for- 
eign setting,  she  obeyed  directions,  and  swallowed 
her  objections.  After  all,  she  said  to  herself,  with  a 
sense  of  justice  that  often  obtruded  itself  on  her 
judgments,  she  didn't  have  to  live  there!  So  the 
paper  was  sacrificed,  and  the  walls  were  whitewashed. 
The  heavy  early  Victorian  furniture  was  exiled  to 
the  attic,  and  in  its  place  she  put  pieces  from  the  mys- 
terious packing  boxes  Densley  had  sent  back  when  he 
first  went  to  Europe,  before  he  had  abandoned  the  idea 
of  some  day  making  Washington  Square  his  home. 
The  cracked  unvarnished  bureaus,  and  the  queer  carved 
bed  put  together  with  wooden  pins,  seemed  to  the  girl 
fit  only  for  a  bonfire.  However,  Howard  not  only 
gave  her  explicit  directions,  but,  in  the  face  of  her 
bewilderment,drew  her  curiously  finished  little  sketches 
of  the  things  he  wished  about  him ;  in  the  end  he  made 
her  a  plan  of  the  room,  showing  the  location  of  every- 
thing; there  was  no  excuse  for  any  mistake  on  her 
part.  It  seemed  an  extraordinary  thing  to  the  girl 
that  a  man  should  be  so  concerned  about  mere  furnish- 
ings, and  she  thought  that  Howard  must  be  a  vastly 
less  dangerous  character  than  she  had  believed. 

His  last  request  before  he  left  the  hospital,  the 
royal  command  to  fill  the  place  with  flowers,  was  more 
sensible,  she  thought,  although  her  eyes  widened  at 
his  careless,  "Be  sure  to  have  enough, — dozens,  with 
long  stems, — not  little  set  bouquets,  as  though  you 
were  going  to  carry  them  to  a  ball."  She  took  over 
an  armful  of  hothouse  roses,  which  glowed  sweetly 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  197 

in  the  cool  white  room,  and  stuck  a  branch  of  flowering 
crab  in  the  bay-window,  where  the  afternoon  sun 
would  wake  it  to  a  translucent  glow.  She  glanced 
about  her  with  a  sudden  vivid  pleasure:  in  spite  of  her- 
self, she  had  accomplished  a  beautiful  thing,  and  some 
instinct  deeper  than  her  meager  experience  bade  her 
recognize  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DENSLEY  HOWARD  [Continued] 

WHEN  Densley  Howard  was  finally  established  in 
Washington  Square,  the  importance  of  her  hospital 
service  suddenly  dwindled  for  Ann.  She  reported,  as 
usual,  early  each  morning,  and  her  associates  did  not 
dream  with  what  a  divided  mind  she  attended  to  her 
duties:  they  only  knew  that  she  instituted  a  new  cus- 
tom of  taking  half  her  day  off,  which  seemed  excus- 
able, in  the  riotous  April  weather. 

The  long  afternoons,  empty  as  a  perfect  gilded  bowl, 
were  her  own,  to  do  with  as  she  pleased,  and  she 
poured  into  them  the  richness  of  association  with  Dens- 
ley.  He  lat  flat  in  his  Italian  walnut  bed,  his  thin 
face  gray  and  ascetic,  against  the  white  pillows,  and 
his  gay  voice  so  weak  that  if  she  did  not  sit  near  him, 
lAnn  could  not  hear  what  he  said  to  her.  He  looked 
alarmingly  ill,  and  yet,  once  the  shock  of  seeing  him, 
< — the  daily  realization  of  this  fact, — was  over,  there 
was  nothing  to  suggest  it  to  his  visitor:  he  did  not 
think  of  it  himself  apparently,  for  the  eyes  that  sought 
Ann's  so  persistently  were  full  only  of  a  conscious- 
ness of  her.  .  .  .  He  never  talked  of  his  symp- 
toms nor  allowed  her  to  burden  him  with  inquiries 
as  to  his  condition.  He  settled  that  on  the  first  day. 

"Some  one  of  these  days,"  he  said,  "I  shall  just 
die — quite  quietly.  .  .  .  There  is  no  one  to  care, 

198 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  199 

particularly.  .  .  .  And  now, — let  us  never  speak 
of  it  again.  .  .  .  That  is  settled." 

Instead  they  talked  of  many  delightful  things,  un- 
important in  themselves,  but  curiously  intimate,  in  the 
isolated  companionship  of  the  bare  white  room.  Dens- 
ley  reviewed  his  life  abroad,  and  discovered  a  wealth 
of  beauty  to  the  untutored  girl.  He  told  her  of  the 
mountain  slopes  of  Taormina  in  the  springtime,  where 
the  shepherd's  pipe  rose  sweet  and  shrill  on  the  eve- 
ning breeze;  of  Venice,  which  he  said  was  the  most 
magnificent  stage  setting  for  happiness  in  the  world; 
of  the  Roman  Campagna,  where  the  distant  moun- 
tains swam  always  in  a  golden  mist,  and  of  Paris, 
when  the  horse  chestnuts  bloomed  over  the  paths  where 
the  lovely  Empress  Eugenie  walked.  It  was  all  magic 
to  Ann,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  long  spring 
afternoons  seemed  all  too  short. 

"How  you  feel  things!"  Densley  murmured,  his 
eyes  on  her  glowing  face,  "and  how  I  should  like  to 
have  ten  years, — ten  golden  years, — to  show  you  the 
world  in,  my  dear !" 

"Oh,"  Ann  responded,  "the  world  is  so  big!  Ten 
years  isn't  half  enough!" 

"Well,"  murmured  Howard.  "We  have  the  entire 
past,  at  any  rate, — and  the  present ; — no  one  can  cheat 
me  of  that." 

They  talked,  too,  of  other  things  which  Densley  as- 
sured her  she  should  love,  once  she  came  to  know  them, 
and  under  his  persuasive  enthusiasm  she  gladly  agreed 
with  him. 


200  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Ever  heard  of  Wagner  operas?"  he  asked,  early  in 
their  intimacy,  adding,  as  she  shook  her  head.  "And 
these  Cortlandts  think  they  are  cultivated  people!" 

"They  are!"  Ann  protested  indignantly.  "Uncle 
often  takes  me  to  hear  opera." 

"What  opera?  L'Elisir  d'Amore?  Ernani?  La  Trav- 
iataf  My  dear  girl,  if  that  is  all,  you  don't  know  what 
opera  is.  ...  You  should  hear  Lohengrin!"  He 
began  to  whistle  a  phrase  of  the  Swan  song,  but  broke 
off  at  once,  for  lack  of  breath. 

"If  I  had  a  piano  here,"  he  complained,  "and  could 
sit  up  to  it  for  a  few  moments,  I  could  show  you 
something.  When  I  play  Der  Fliegcnde  Hollander  I 
can  give  even  myself  a  thrill, — and  that's  the  test !" 

He  had  an  amazing  proficiency  in  all  the  arts.  He 
drew  delightful  little  sketches,  illustrative  of  passing 
impressions,  and  he  talked  bewilderingly  about  paint- 
ing-. He  scorned  the  sentimental  canvasses  that  Ann 
unquestioningly  sdmired,  and  upheld  strange  gods  of 
whom  she  had  never  rieard.  He  praised  an  unknown 
called  Manet,  and,  after  some  ^earcri  m  curiously  hap- 
hazard luggage,  he  produced  a  small  painting  of  a 
Spanish  dancer.  "Manet  did  it,"  he  said,  reverently, 
"last  year,  when  I  ran  across  him  with  Baudelaire, 
in  Paris." 

It  seemed  to  the  girl  garishly  bare  and  unshadowed ; 
she  thought  it  was  not  pretty  at  all,  but  she  paid 
Densley's  intelligence  the  tribute  of  doubting  her  own 
taste,  and  she  put  it  away  as  he  bade  her,  not,  as  he 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  201 

said,  to  wait  until  the  master  should  become  famous, 
but  because  she  treasured  it  as  a  gift  from  him. 

It  was  not  until  the  third  day  of  this  easy  compan- 
ionship that  he  asked  her  the  question  which  she  had 
been  dreading.  She  thought,  when  she  came  in,  that 
he  looked  more  ill  than  usual,  and  she  could  not  sup- 
press a  murmur  of  pity. 

He  frowned  at  her  ferociously;  the  tenderness  to 
which  she  was  accustomed  had  left  his  face,  and  the 
warm  certainty  of  his  liking  was  all  gone.  "I  have 
had  a  blow,"  he  said. 

All  at  once  she  knew.  "Some  one  has  told  you 
about  Hendricks,"  she  answered.  She  looked  across 
at  him  appealingly  from  where  she  stood,  forlorn,  by 
the  door. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "The  doctor  told  me.  He  says 
you  are  engaged  to  him, — to  Hendricks  Renneslyer." 

Ann  nodded.     "I  am." 

Howard  motioned  impatiently  to  her  usual  seat. 
"Come  and  sit  down,"  he  commanded.  "Let  us  get 
to  the  bottom  of  this.  ...  It  can't  be." 

"But  it  is."    Her  valiant  smile  was  dreary. 

"I  saw  him,  at  Fairfax  Court-House." 

"You  saw  him?  You  saw  Hendricks?  You  never 
told  me!  How  did  he  look?" 

"He  looked— stupid." 

"Oh,  that  isn't  fair !    He  is  a  very  good  officer." 

"Yes, — good  as  the  deuce !  Roars  out  his  orders  at 
his  men  so  that  they  shake  in  their  shoes!  Frowns 


202  THE  CORTLANDTS 

like  a  regular  Zeus  if  anything  crosses  him.  .  .  . 
But,  Ann, — you  must  believe  me, — he  would  never 
know  why  life  is  fair."  The  tenderness  had  come 
back  into  his  eyes,  as  for  a  profound  moment  they 
held  hers. 

"But, — is  life  fair?"  she  asked  confusedly.  "There 
seems  to  me  to  be  so  much  pain, — so  much  unhappi- 
ness." 

"My  dear,  it  is, — because  you  are  here,  and  some 
day  some  glorified  man  will  make  you  see  it, — but  not 
Hendricks  Renneslyer.  You  must  promise  me,  not 
Hendricks  Renneslyer." 

"But  why?  Hendricks  is — good.  He  is, — uncle 
says  so, — safe." 

"Good?  Do  you  want  to  marry  a  man  who  is 
good  because  he  hasn't  enough  imagination  to  be 
capable  of  temptation?  Safe?  Good  God,  Ann,  if 
you  must  marry  a  man  as  unsympathetic  as  Renneslyer, 
you  don't  want  him  too  safe, — you'll  never  get  rid 
of  him!" 

"But, — he  is  very  fond  of  me." 

"Is  he?  How  extraordinary!  I  am  fond  of  you 
myself,  my  dear,  although  it  never  seems  to  occur  to 
you.  ...  I  am  mad  about  you.  ...  I  think 
about  you  constantly.  .  .  .  With  so  little  time  left 
I  begrudge  the  few  hours  I  sleep,  and  long  before 
there  is  a  chance  of  your  coming  I  stand  Maggie  in 
the  window  there,  to  watch  for  you." 

"Ah,"  said  Ann  wisely,  "that  is  because  you  are  ill, 
and  see  no  one  but  me." 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  203 

Densley  Howard  looked  steadily  at  her  for  a  long 
moment.  "No,"  he  said,  "it  is  because  I  love  you. 
...  I  love  you.  .  .  .  Strange,  isn't  it, — at 
the  end,  like  this  ?" 

Ann  sat  speechless,  but  he  talked  on,  with  his  usual 
sunny  fluency.  "I've  been  in  love  before,  of  course, 
but  it  seems  as  if  this  time  was  more--— important. 
.  .  .  Still,  you  never  can  tell.  Each  time  it  is 
different,  and  each  time  the  present  transcends  the 
past.  .  .  .  And  yet,  I  think,  with  you,  that  I 
might  not  have  tired.  ...  I  could  have  made  you 
gloriously  happy  for  a  while.  ...  It  seems  a  pity, 
doesn't  it,  when  we  believe  that  being  happy  is  what 
counts  ?" 

Ann  started.    "Is  it,  I  wonder?" 

Howard  lifted  himself  higher  on  his  pillows.  "My 
dear,  it  is!  To  be  happy, — to  be  free, — that's  life!" 

"Uncle  says  that  doing  your  duty, — taking  your 
place  in  the  community, — is  the  important  thing." 

Howard  laughed.  "Your  place  in  the  community 
is  a  cold  comfort!  Fill  your  life  full,  Ann, — full  to 
overflowing, — and  then  at  any  rate  you  will  know 
that  you  haven't  missed  anything!  Look  at  my  life! 
I  used  to  think  that  I  was  a  moral  to  point  a  tale, 
and  yet,  if  I  hadn't  done  just  what  I  have,  if  I  didn't 
lie  here  dying  because  I  have  flung  away  my  strength, 
— why,  then  I  might  never  have  known  you.  .  .  . 
I  should  have  missed  these  exquisite  moments,  Ann. 
.  .  .  Give  me  your  hand  to  kiss,  dear,  I  forget 
what  I  was  going  to  say." 


204  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Ann  stretched  out  her  hand  unquestioningly : 
Densley  always  kissed  it  when  she  came  and  when  she 
went,  but  this  was  different;  although  he  only  pressed 
his  lips  once  on  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  again, 
lingeringly,  on  her  cupped  palm,  she  felt  that  no  kiss 
had  ever  been  so  intimately  caressing.  His  face  was 
flushed  when  he  let  her  draw  her  fingers  away;  he 
had  a  fictitious  look  of  health  and  vigor.  "You  are 
not  made  for  duty,  Ann,"  he  said.  "You  are  made  for 
joy." 

She  gladly  flung  herself  upon  the  safe  ground  of 
argument.  "Hendricks  expects  me  to  be  happy,  of 
course." 

"But  will  you  be?  That  is  the  question.  Will  you 
be  satisfied  to  let  his  standards  govern  your  actions? 
Wouldn't  you  want,  ever,  to  talk  to  some  one  about  the 
things  Renneslyer  can't  understand?  Wouldn't  you 
ever  have  a  feeling  that  you  were  so  hedged  in  by 
laws  that  you  must  break  out  just  for  the  fun  of  break- 
ing? Wouldn't  you  ever  want  to  live  fully?" 

"I — don't  know,"  Ann  murmured  breathlessly.  "I 
am  afraid  I  should." 

"Of  course  you  can't  marry  him !  I  know  you,  my 
dear.  ...  I  suppose  there  will  be  the  devil  of  a 
row  if  you  break  with  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Ann  admitted,  and  laughed. 

"And  you  are  dependent  on  all  these  Cortlandts. 
.  .  .  Listen  to  me,  Ann,  darling, — marry  me,  and 
cheat  my  smug- faced  clergyman  brother!" 

Ann  moved  her  chair  hastily  back,  and  cast  a  fright- 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  205 

cned  glance  at  the  door.  She  shook  her  head  violently. 
"I  couldn't  do  that!"  she  protested  decidedly. 

"But  why  not?  You  don't  need  to  love  me,  you 
know.  It  would  be  very  simple.  .  .  .  We'll  just 
have  a  minister  in  here  some  afternoon,  and  then,  when 
I  am  gone,  you  will  come  in  for  something  that  will 
enable  you  to  snap  your  fingers  at  the  Cortlandts." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  snap  my  fingers  at  them," 
she  protested.  "I  adore  my  uncle.  .  .  .  He  is 
the  only  person  I  have  ever  been  perfectly  honest 
with, — except  you." 

"And  do  you  adore  me, — a  little?"  His  tone  was 
light,  but  his  eyes  were  suddenly  tragically  intense. 

She  looked  straight  at  him,  with  a  troubled  gaze. 
"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "but  I  think  I  could,  easily." 

Densley  put  out  his  hand,  and  held  hers  for  a 
moment,  in  a  close  dry  clasp.  She  had  not  known  that 
he  had  so  much  strength  left  as  she  felt  in  his  clinging 
fingers.  "That's  all,"  he  said  weakly,  as,  after  a 
moment,  his  hold  relaxed,  and  she  drew  her  hand 
away. 

After  that  he  read  poetry  to  her,  when  their  con- 
versation flagged.  Ann  wondered  if  he,  too,  were 
afraid  of  their  silences.  In  spite  of  his  labored  breath- 
ing he  got  through  a  vast  amount  of  Keats  and 
Shelley,  and  he  let  her  read  him  Tennyson,  while  he 
lay  exhausted,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her.  She  had 
never  voiced  such  sentiments  before,  even  Tennyson's 
demulcent  Victorian  passion  seemed  to  her  unre- 
strained, and  when  she  listened  to  Densley's  voice, 


206  THE  CORTLANDTS 

thrillingly  emotional,  in  spite  of  its  weakness,  the  frag- 
mentary love-making  of  the  temperate  Hendricks 
seemed  like  the  make-believe  of  a  child.  She  told 
Densley  that  she  would  break  with  him,  and  so  she 
made  up  her  mind  at  last,  with  a  vivifying  sense  of 
relief. 

"Why,"  she  said  one  day,  "did  you  come  over  here  ? 
Was  it  just  to  set  me  free?  You  don't  talk  as  if  Amer- 
ica meant  much  to  you.  Why  did  you  want  to  fight  ?" 

"I  didn't,"  he  confessed  easily.  "I  hated  it  like  the 
devil.  ...  I  remember  the  day  I  decided.  I 
was  loafing  along  the  Arno,  thinking  how  fortunate  it 
was  for  me  to  be  there, — free, — with  no  ties  to  draw 
me  into  this  miserable  business, — when  all  at  once  it 
came  over  me  that  the  war  was  being  fought  for  free- 
dom. ...  I  had  had  that  on  my  flag  from  the 
beginning, — since  I  first  rebelled,  almost  a  boy,  here 
in  New  York.  .  .  .  And  so  I  came  back.  .  .  . 
And  it  has  been  too  much  for  me.  I  expect  it  is  the 
only  thing  I  ever  did  that  was  like  my  clergyman 
brother." 

As  the  days  went  on,  Ann  became  nervously  anxious 
about  her  guardian's  return ;  she  was  afraid  he  would 
not  approve  of  her  intimacy  with  Densley,  and  she 
felt  that  she  could  not  give  it  up.  The  day  before 
his  arrival  Howard  detained  her  with  a  score  of  trivial 
subterfuges:  he  looked  very  ill  indeed,  when  she  shut 
out  the  last  of  the  sunset,  and  lighted  the  candles  on 
the  mantel-shelf. 

"Come  here,"  he  said  finally.     "Come  closer." 


DENSLEY  HOWARD  207 

Ann  obeyed,  and  slipped  her  hand  in  his,  with  an 
affectionate  little  pressure.  She  looked  down  at  him 
miserably,  realizing  his  tragic  state,  and  then  she 
smiled,  to  hearten  him. 

"That's  right,"  he  murmured.  "There's  sadness 
enough,  Ann  darling.  .  .  .  Good  night." 

The  giii  hesitated.  There  was  something  in  his  eyes 
that  troubled  her,  and  made  her  stoop  swiftly  to  him, 
and  kiss  him,  very  shyly,  on  his  wasted  cheek. 

He  did  not  try  to  detain  her,  nor  to  return  her 
caress.  "Thank  you,"  he  said.  "You  have  given  me 
something  to  think  about.  .  .  .  Thank  you, — for 
everything." 

She  hated  to  leave  him,  lying  alone  there  in  the  big 
room,  with  the  flickering  candles  making  scythe-like 
shadows  across  the  high  walls,  especially  as  she  did 
not  know  when  she  might  return,  if  her  guardian 
should  prove  obdurate.  Her  heart  was  heavy  as  she 
slipped  out  of  the  silent  house. 

Immediately  after  Mr.  Cortlandt's  arrival,  early  the 
next  morning,  she  told  him  of  her  escapade,  and  she 
was  surprised  at  his  calm  reception  of  her  news.  He 
seemed  more  sad  than  angry,  and  he  was  very  gentle 
with  her.  As  she  poured  out  her  confession,  he  took 
both  her  hands  and  held  them. 

"You  are  not  displeased  with  me,  uncle?" 

"Displeased?  No.  ...  If  you  gave  him  any 
happiness, — poor  boy.  .  .  .  Densley  Howard  died 
in  the  night,  Ann." 


CHAPTER  XVn 

TRAGEDY 

ANN  could  not  tell  how  much  her  guardian  sur- 
mised of  her  feeling  for  Densley,  but  she  knew  it  was 
for  her  sake  that  he,  in  the  absence  of  any  one  in 
authority,  took  charge  of  his  neighbor's  house,  with 
its  sinister  knot  of  crape  on  the  silver  knocker.  It 
was  he  who  notified  the  inheriting  brother  in  De- 
troit, and  who  made  the  arrangements  for  the  funeral, 
although  he  left  it  to  her  to  see  that  the  house  was 
ready  for  the  services.  She  set  gratefully  to  work  to 
put  in  order  the  stuffy  formal  rooms  on  the  first  floor, 
whose  closed  white  doors  had  so  often  thrown  back  her 
slender  black  shadow,  as  she  hurried  past  them  to  the 
stairs. 

Only  once  did  she  venture  into  the  dear  familiarity 
of  the  upper  front  room;  the  blinds  had  been  closed, 
and  a  thin  gray  light  pervaded  the  spacious  white 
place.  A  tight  bunch  of  pallid  funeral  roses  stood  on 
the  table  by  the  bed,  and  a  thick  odor  of  more  exotic 
flowers  hung  in  the  air;  the  old  nurse  was  having  her 
way  at  the  end.  Densley  lay  as  she  had  seen  him 
last,  except  that  the  eager  blue  eyes,  which  had  always 
followed  her  persistently,  were  closed;  it  was  strange 
not  to  meet  their  shining  response.  .  .  .  His 
hands  were  folded  on  his  breast;  they  were  pitiably 

208 


TRAGEDY  209 

thin,  but  they  were  poignantly  natural.  .  .  .  She 
put  out  her  own  hand  to  touch  them,  but  shrank  back 
from  their  cold  unresponse.  .  .  .  He  looked  sad, 
she  thought,  and  older.  Now  that  he  had  nothing 
to  give  her  he  was  subtly  changed.  He  had  loved 
her  very  beautifully,  she  knew,  but  it  seemed  a  curi- 
ously long  time  ago,  and  she  wondered,  as  she  stood, 
glowing,  above  him,  if  she  had  really  loved  him.  .  . 
What  was  love,  she  questioned  piteously,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  that  graven  face  as  on  an  oracle.  Was  it  a  re- 
sponse only,  something  other  love  called  into  being, 
like  a  speech  in  a  play,  or  was  it  a  more  vital  thing 
than  that,  a  thing  that  ran  out  ahead  of  one,  beyond 
one's  defenses?  She  could  not  tell,  nor  could  Densley 
Howard  now  enlighten  her. 

One  thing,  however,  she  did  know,  and  that  was  that 
she  must  break  immediately  with  Hendricks  Rennes- 
lyer.  She  went  straight  to  her  own  room,  after  this 
mute  farewell,  and,  sitting  sternly  upright  before  her 
little  desk,  she  wrote  her  letter  to  him.  The  problem 
of  how  she  should  tell  him  that  she  found  their  en- 
gagement to  be  a  mistake  had  occupied  her  thoughts 
for  many  wakeful  nights,  but  now  the  difficulties 
seemed  smoothed  away,  while  the  feeling  that  she 
was  doing  something  Densley  would  approve  of  gave 
her  a  consciousness  of  exaltation. 

"And  so,  dear  Hendricks,"  she  finished,  "I  can  not 
marry  you,  because  I  know,  now,  that  I  do  not  love 
you,  and  no  one  could  be  sorrier  than  I  am  about 
it." 


210  THE  CORTLANDTS 

The  specter  of  her  guardian's  disappointment  stalked 
in  vain  before  her  determination;  she  sent  her  letter 
to  the  mail  and  would  have  told  Mr.  Cortlandt  all 
about  it  when  he  came  in,  had  he  not  forestalled  her 
with  astonishing  news  of  his  own. 

"Ann,"  he  said,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  "I 
have  heard  from  the  president.  He  wants  me  to  go 
abroad  at  once, — to  England.  The  Great  Eastern 
sails  the  day  after  to-morrow;  I  shall  take  it." 

"Uncle,"  cried  Ann,  her  personal  difficulties  for- 
gotten, "may  I  go  with  you  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  not,  Ann.  I  considered  it,  but  I  am 
going  with  other  gentlemen,  and  in  London  we  are 
to  join  Mr.  John  M.  Forbes  of  Boston." 

"Mr.  Lincoln  is  sending  you  to  keep  those  English 
shipbuilders  from  letting  the  Rebels  have  their  iron 
ships!"  Ann  guessed  acutely.  "I  am  so  glad,  uncle! 
I  know  you  will  never  let  them  do  it." 

Mr.  Cortlandt  smiled  affectionately  at  her.  "My 
dear,  I  am  flattered  at  your  belief  in  my  powers, — but 
Mr.  Forbes  has  that  matter  very  well  in  hand;  I 
am  only  to  confer  with  him  informally  about  it.  .  . 
What  the  president  really  wants  me  to  do  is  to  go 
first  to  England  and  then  to  France  and  Germany,  to 
acquaint  European  capitalists  with  the  actual  circum- 
stances in  this  country,  and  with  the  resources  of  the 
North.  He  believes  it  is  only  in  this  way  that  we 
can  destroy  their  partiality  for  the  Confederates.  I 
don't  want  to  go,  Ann.  I  should  prefer  to  work  here. 
There  is  more  bad  news  from  the  front." 


TRAGEDY  211 

Ann's  frightened  eyes  interrogated  him.  "Chancel- 
lorsville?"  she  whispered,  unwilling  to  voice  the  pos- 
sibility of  loss  at  that  important  point. 

"Yes.     .     .     .     Another  defeat." 

"But  I  thought  we  had  twice  as  many  men  there 
as  the  Rebels?" 

"Lee  is  a  great  general,  Ann,  and  the  sooner  we 
Federals  realize  it  the  better.  .  .  .  They  say  the 
loss  of  life  is  appalling; — perhaps  twenty-five  thousand 
men  killed,  and  many  more  wounded." 

Into  Ann's  mind  rushed  a  realization  of  Hendricks 
in  deadly  peril.  After  all,  until  they  were  reassured 
of  his  safety  in  this  present  terrible  battle,  she  would 
not  tell  her  guardian  what  she  had  written ;  she  would 
spare  him  that  much.  So  she  flung  herself  into  Mr. 
Cortlandt's  preparations  for  departure,  and  held  her 
peace.  She  was  glad  to  be  busy,  and  to  have  little 
opportunity  to  think  of  Densley,  who  lay  surrounded 
by  alien  kinsfolk,  in  the  house  just  along  the  Square. 
She  sat  up  very  late  that  evening,  as  her  guardian 
allowed  her  to  remain  beside  him  in  the  informal  con- 
ference in  the  library.  Mr.  Greeley  was  there,  and 
Mr.  Dana,  who  brought  the  heartening  news  that  the 
redoubtable  Stonewall  Jackson  had  fallen  that  day. 
They  smoked  a  great  many  cigars,  and  discussed  her 
guardian's  mission  at  length.  Ann  was  enormously 
proud  of  him ;  as  she  sat  mutely  witnessing  his  friends' 
trust  in  him  she  found  it  easy  to  share  their  belief  that 
he  was  the  only  man  to  save  the  situation  abroad. 

As  she  took  down  her  hair  that  night,  and  brushed 


212  THE  CORTLANDTS 

it  for  a  long  time  in  order  to  rid  it  of  the  odor  of 
tobacco  which  clung  to  it,  her  personal  difficulties 
seemed  very  trivial  indeed.  .  .  .  Possibilities  of 
war  with  England.  .  .  .  Foreign  loans.  .  .  . 
The  friendship  of  France.  .  .  .  Somehow  the 
question  of  whether  she  should  marry  Hendricks  or  not 
was  extremely  unimportant.  .  .  .  Suddenly, 
however,  she  wished  very  much  that  she  could  tell 
Densley  of  her  uncle's  mission,  and  talk  it  over  with 
him.  .  .  .  She  was  tired  and  it  was  late,  but  it 
was  a  long  time  before  she  could  sleep.  High  clouds 
were  scurrying  about  a  moonlit  sky,  and  she  was  afraid 
that  it  might  rain  the  next  day, — the  day  of  Densley 's 
funeral. 

In  the  morning,  however,  the  sun  shone  brilliantly; 
the  same  high  clouds  moved  majestically  about  a  far- 
away blue  sky,  and  the  breeze,  even  in  the  city,  was 
laden  with  the  odor  of  fruit-trees  in  bloom.  It  was 
the  sort  of  day  that  Densley  would  have  loved,  and 
Ann  was  sorry  that  he  had  not  lived  to  see  it.  After 
all,  she  thought,  it  would  have  been  better  for  him 
to  be  buried  on  the  kind  of  rainy  day  he  hated. 

Her  guardian  went  with  her  to  the  services  in  his 
neighbor's  house,  but  he  could  not  take  the  time  to 
drive  out  to  the  cemetery,  so  Ann  went  alone,  and 
stood  on  the  fringe  of  the  small  group  of  mourners. 
She  felt  that  the  ceremony  had  strangely  little  to  do 
with  Densley,  who  had  talked  so  much  of  the  joy  of 
life,  and  so  little  of  this  numbing  sadness.  She  won- 
dered at  herself  for  not  feeling  a  more  acute  grief; 


TRAGEDY  213 

she  clenched  her  hands  until  the  nails  bit  into  her  soft 
palms,  and  still  she  could  not  force  herself  to  an 
emotional  crisis.  .  .  .  She  thought,  "I  shall  never 
see  him  again.  ...  I  shall  never  see  him  again," 
— and  at  the  same  time  she  could  not  help  wondering 
what  would  have  been  the  situation  had  she  accepted 
Densley's  mad  suggestion  to  have  a  clergyman  in,  on 
one  of  those  uneventful  afternoons.  Her  lips  twitched 
as  she  glanced  at  "the  good  Willy"  in  his  correct 
mourning,  and  wondered  if  he  would  have  exhibited 
quite  so  much  conventional  grief  had  she  been  beside 
him, — Densley's  widow.  .  .  .  The  dull  thud  of 
earth  falling  on  wood  aroused  her  to  sudden  poignant 
emotion;  she  had  never  felt  like  that  in  all  her  life 
before.  She  wished  that  she  were  the  sort  of  girl  who 
cried  easily;  it  would  be  better  than  this  sensation  of 
all  the  world  falling  away  from  her.  .  .  .  Floods 
of  tears,  she  felt,  would  be  inadequate,  and  she  hated 
herself  because  she  stood,  still  and  composed,  with  her 
white  lips  closely  set. 

In  Washington  Square  a  great  confusion  awaited 
her;  everything  was  in  a  whirl  of  excitement;  even 
old  Joseph,  who  opened  the  door  for  her,  was  tremu- 
lous with  agitation,  and  Mrs.  Renneslyer's  voice, 
breathless  and  shrill,  came  clearly  out  to  her,  from 
the  the  drawing-room.  She  was  there,  elegantly  emo- 
tional upon  a  sofa,  while  Fanny  was  wiping  her  eyes 
beside  her,  and  Hend ricks'  father  was  striding  about 
the  room,  red-faced  and  incoherently  profane.  Mr. 
Cortlandt  was  standing,  very  still,  in  the  window. 


214  THE  CORTLANDTS 

There  was  something  ominous  in  the  air,  and  Ann 
halted  abruptly.  "It  is  Hendricks!"  she  cried.  "He 
is  dead!" 

Mr.  Renneslyer  reassured  her.  "Dead?  Nonsense!" 
he  burst  out.  "Hendricks  is  a  hero, — that's  all, — 
a  regular  hero!  Damme,  no  one  would  have  thought 
it  when  he  was  a  boy!  I  have  had  a  letter  from 
his  colonel:  Hendricks  distinguished  himself  in  a 
night  attack — conspicuous  bravery,  he  says.  They've 
made  him  a  captain, — at  twenty-two,  by  God!" 

There  was  an  instant's  silence  after  this  outburst 
as  Mr.  Cortlandt  came  over  to  Ann,  and  took  her  hand. 
She  was  glad  that  he  stood  so  as  to  shield  her  face 
from  the  others. 

"You  must  be  very  proud,  my  dear,"  he  said  cere- 
moniously. "We  must  all  be  proud  of  Hendricks." 

The  girl  sank  into  a  chair,  dazed  by  the  sudden 
reaction.  Into  her  mind  came,  unbidden,  Densley 
Howard's  casual  depreciation  of  Hendricks  in  action ; 
she  had  an  instant's  clear  vision  of  him,  red-faced 
and  domineering.  .  .  .  But  her  guardian  was 
right,  just  now,  for  a  while,  she  must  be  proud;  she 
should  have  no  place  for  any  other  emotion.  .  .  . 
She  put  her  hands  to  her  face,  to  insure  some  privacy 
from  unfriendly  eyes,  and  then  over  everything  came 
flooding  gladness  that  Hendricks  was  not  killed, — dear 
Hendricks,  whom  she  found  it  impossible  to  be  in 
love  with! 

There  came  a  great  jangle  at  the  door-bell,  and 
every  one,  already  in  an  emotional  state,  started  nerv- 


TRAGEDY  215 

ously.  Joseph  brought  in  a  note,  and  Mr.  Cortlandt 
ripped  it  open.  "It  is  from  Horace  Greeley,"  he  said. 
"It  is  marked  'Important.' '  He  glanced  at  the  brief 
enclosure,  and  turned  suddenly  white. 

"What  is  it  ?"    Ann  whispered. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  did  not  seem  to  hear  her;  he  might 
have  been  alone  in  the  room  for  any  attention  he  paid 
to  the  people  gathered  there.  He  reread  the  note 
aloud,  stupidly,  as  if  he  had  not  mastered  its  con- 
tents. 

"Dear  Friend:  It  is  my  sad  duty  to  inform  you 
that  in  the  official  list,  sent  me  for  publication,  of  men 
who  have  gloriously  fallen  at  the  battle  of  Chancellors- 
ville,  the  name  of  your  nephew  Hendricks  Renneslyer 
appears.  I  can  say  nothing  to  soften  your  grief, — 
nothing  to  .  .  ."  His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence, 
as  Mrs.  Renneslyer  interrupted  his  reading  with  a 
loud  scream,  and  Joseph  burst  into  lamentations.  The 
room  was  suddenly  filled  with  a  clamor  of  sorrow.  Ann 
stood  very  still,  half  stunned  by  the  shock.  She  looked 
over  at  her  guardian,  and  saw  his  face  become  old  and 
gray  under  her  eyes.  She  went  over  to  him,  and 
put  her  arms  around  his  neck ;  she  was  trembling  vio- 
lently, and  Mr.  Cortlandt  slipped  his  arm  about  her, 
and  drew  her  close  to  him. 

"Poor  child,"  he  whispered.    "Poor  child." 

The  girl's  convulsive  clinging  suddenly  went  slack. 
Behind  her  Mrs.  Renneslyer's  shrill  grief  arose,  and 
Fanny's  outburst  of  sobs,  but  she  disregarded  them. 
Standing  there  with  her  cheek  against  her  guardian's, 


216  THE  CORTLANDTS 

she  thought  with  the  most  extraordinary  clarity.  The 
question  of  whether  or  not  she  should  marry  Hen- 
dricks,  which  had  for  so  long  tormented  her,  was, 
miraculously,  gone,  and  in  its  place  a  conviction  arose 
that  here  was  something  important  she  could  do  for 
the  kind  old  man  she  adored, — for  whom  she  felt  that 
she  could  never  do  enough.  For  his  sake,  she  could  pre- 
tend that  she  had  loved  Hendricks  as  well  as  he  un- 
doubtedly had  deserved, — as  well  as  all  these  people 
wanted  to  believe  she  had  loved  him.  It  seemed  at  the 
moment  not  too  difficult  to  carry  off,  because  she  was, 
after  all,  as  sorry  to  lose  Hendricks  as  she  would  have 
been  had  he  been  a  well  loved  brother.  Standing  with 
her  face  hidden,  she  could  feel  that  her  guardian,  and 
all  of  them,  even  Mrs.  Renneslyer,  assumed  that  of  all 
the  grief -stricken  persons  in  the  room,  she  was  the  one 
most  concerned.  She  accepted  this  position  willingly, 
and  the  moment  passed  in  which  she  could  have 
confessed  the  real  situation  between  herself  and  Hen- 
dricks. 


CHAPTER  XVIH 

ACTION 

THE  Great  Eastern  sailed  the  day  after  the  receipt 
of  the  news  of  Hendricks'  death,  and  Ann  dogged  Mr. 
Cortlandt's  footsteps  during  this  interval.  She  drove 
about  the  city  with  him  while  he  put  his  affairs  in 
order,  waiting  patiently  outside  office  buildings  and 
banks,  and  he  talked  to  her  in  snatches  of  Hendricks. 

Everywhere  people  stopped  to  offer  him  condo- 
lences, for  Hendricks'  name  among  the  dead  had  given 
the  family  the  sympathy  of  the  entire  city.  Ann 
hated  this  public  display  of  grief,  and  when  she  said 
good-by  to  her  guardian  on  the  dock,  she  wished  that 
she  might  sail  with  him,  away  from  it  all.  There 
were  tears  in  his  eyes  when  he  kissed  her,  and  his 
hands  on  her  shoulder  clung  regretfully.  The  girl 
was  frankly  crying  as  she  urged  him  to  take  good: 
care  of  himself, — to  come  back  quickly.  She  remem- 
bered the  time  years  ago  when  she  had  said  farewell 
to  her  pretty  mother  before  she  had  sailed,  and  she 
shivered  in  unreasonable  dread  of  a  tragic  happening 
on  this  voyage,  also. 

"I  should  have  gone  with  you,"  she  kept  repeating 
futilely.  "I  should  have  gone  with  you." 

Harsh  gongs  began  to  sound;  her  guardian  em- 
braced his  sisters  and  Fanny,  and  turned  to  her  for  a 
last  pressure  of  her  hands  and  a  deep  look  into  her 

217 


218  THE  CORTLANDTS 

eyes.  "God  bless  you,"  he  said,  and  he  kissed  her 
again  before  he  hurried  off,  up  the  gangplank.  Al- 
most immediately  the  ship  began  to  move,  and  there 
was  a  great  confusion  of  getting  under  way.  Fare- 
wells were  lost  in  the  creaking  of  ropes  and  blowing 
of  whistles.  Ann  looked  up  and  saw  Mr.  Cortlandt 
leaning  over  the  rail  on  the  upper  deck,  waving  down 
to  her.  She  stood  very  still,  and  waved  back, — a  solid 
black  figure,  and  a  little  wisp  of  fluttering  white. 
...  It  seemed  to  her  but  a  moment  when  the  figures 
on  board  the  Great  Eastern  became  indefinite,  and 
merged  into  the  general  bulk  of  the  ship.  .  .  . 
There  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  return  to  Wash- 
ington Square. 

There  Ann  found  herself  facing  new  obligations. 
Mrs.  Cortlandt  and  her  daughter  came  to  live  with 
her  while  her  guardian  was  away,  and  Fanny  talked 
of  Hendricks  by  the  hour.  Ann  had  a  curious  sensa- 
tion of  being  pushed  into  passionate  affirmation,  be- 
cause the  other  girl  seemed  wistfully  to  demand  it 
Mrs.  Cortlandt  proved  herself  an  authority  on  the 
etiquette  of  grief,  and  Ann  submitted  willingly  enough 
to  her  dictum  that  she  should  submerge  her  vivid 
youth  in  crape  and  veils,  for  this  was  a  part  of  her 
obligation  to  the  Cortlandt  family  which  she  willingly 
assumed.  Fanny's  mother,  however,  did  not  stop  at 
that.  There  was  little  gaiety  in  New  York  in  the 
spring  of  1863,  but  she  gave  the  girls  to  understand 
that  had  there  been,  they  could  not  have  taken  part  in 
it.  She  talked  a  great  deal  of  the  balls  and  dinner 


ACTION  219 

parties  which  they  might  be  foregoing,  had  Hendricks' 
death  occurred  in  normal  times.  This  was  harmless 
enough,  although  singularly  irritating;  the  girl  learned 
to  present  a  docile  face  to  such  fruitless  conversation, 
but  when  Mrs.  Cortlandt  announced  that  she  consid- 
ered it  improper  for  her  to  go  on  with  her  service  at  the 
hospital,  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  Ann  re- 
belled. Three  days  after  Hendricks'  death  she  was 
back  at  her  post,  but  the  discussion  in  regard  to  her 
work  arose  at  every  meal,  insistent  and  acrimonious.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  could  never  get  away  from  it. 

Moreover,  she  had  none  of  the  delightful  privacy 
she  had  enjoyed  when  living  with  her  guardian:  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  no  opportunity  to  be 
alone.  Hendricks'  mother  made  constant  demands  on 
her,  and  Ann  was  so  sorry  for  her  that  she  listened 
attentively,  with  more  than  the  docility  of  a  daughter, 
to  details  of  Hendricks'  youth, — details  curiously  un- 
important, like  those  a  stranger  might  have  repeated. 
She  was  told  again  and  again  of  his  little  best  suits, 
and  his  lordly  air  when  a  child,  which,  after  all,  she 
could  herself  remember.  Mrs.  Renneslyer  suddenly 
looked  her  age ;  her  pretty  face  sharpened,  and  she  lost 
her  alert  carriage.  Ann  was  glad  enough  to  do  any- 
thing she  could  for  her;  the  thing  she  found  hardest 
to  endure  was  her  shame  in  the  face  of  such  genuine 
grief;  she  preferred  the  acrimony  of  Mrs.  Cortlandt 
to  the  new  softness  of  Hendricks'  mother,  or  Fanny's 
broken  sweetness.  Her  spirit  was  willing,  but  her 
nerves  were  feminine,  and  they  all  assumed  her  devo- 


220  THE  CORTLANDTS 

tion  to  the  slain  hero  so  unquestioningly,  that  there 
were  moments  when  she  longed  to  cry  out  wildly  to 
them  that  she  had  not  loved  him.  She  felt  that  if  she 
might  do  this  she  would  develop  a  more  genuine 
sorrow  for  his  death.  As  it  was,  an  unconquerable 
feeling  of  resentment  toward  him  edged  its  way  into 
her  dutiful  grief;  she  was  horrified  at  it  but  she 
could  not  help  it.  She  did  her  best  to  be  honest;  she 
tried  to  keep  her  mind  on  the  triumphant  Hendricks 
of  the  early  days  of  their  betrothal,  and  she  sternly 
banished  Densley  Howard  from  her  thoughts.  That 
poignantly  intimate  interlude  sank  into  unreality; 
it  was  as  though  it  had  never  been,  except  that  some- 
where in  Ann's  heart  there  was  a  little  door  kept 
firmly  shut  upon  a  smiling  world  which  he  had  dis- 
covered for  her. 

In  the  meantime,  the  Confederate  Army  of  North- 
ern Virginia  marched  triumphantly  across  Maryland, 
and  into  Pennsylvania,  and  the  North  awoke  to  a 
shock  of  real  fright.  The  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
although  weakened  by  losses  and  dissensions,  advanced 
pluckily  to  meet  the  invading  enemy,  but  New  York 
was  crowded  with  refugees  from  Baltimore  and 
Harrisburg  who  spread  the  fear  that  Washington 
might  be  taken.  Continual  engagements  made  the 
hospital  situation  acute.  Emergency  tents  near  the 
front  were  filled  to  capacity  and  Washington  had  be- 
come a  city  of  the  sick,  but  still  there  was  not  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  beds,  and  in  order  to  relieve  the 
congestion,  the  wounded  were  sent  on  to  New  York 


ACTION  221 

in  great  numbers.  Additional  quarters  were  hastily 
made  ready  for  them,  but  in  spite  of  that,  the  wards 
were  overcrowded,  and  still  strings  of  four-horse  am- 
bulances might  be  seen,  day  and  night,  on  the  streets 
leading  from  the  docks  to  the  hospitals. 

Ann  made  a  new  acquaintance  who  had  just  returned 
from  field  hospital  work  in  Virginia;  after  her  experi- 
ences there,  she  found  New  York  nursing  tame,  and 
said  so.  The  girl  drank  in  her  reminiscenes  eagerly, 
and  immediately  developed  an  ambition  to  nurse  at  the 
front  herself.  She  returned  to  her  early  habit  of  day- 
dreams; she  imagined  herself  in  heroic  situations, 
staunching  wounds  under  actual  fire.  .  .  .  Staying 
Casabianca-like  by  a  patient's  bedside,  while  the  Rebels 
took  the  hospital.  .  .  .  Saving  the  life  of  the  com- 
manding general  himself.  .  .  .  She  grew  ex- 
tremely restless,  and  under  her  acute  desire  for 
change,  her  difficult  daily  life  became  all  but  unbear- 
able. 

She  was  peddling  lemonade  through  the  wards 
late  one  afternoon,  when  the  doctor  in  charge,  an  old 
friend  who  had  seen  her  through  the  various  ailments 
of  childhood,  came  up  to  her  and  took  her  heavy 
pitcher  away. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "Come 
outside  for  a  moment." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  high  steps  of  the  building, 
where  they  might  overlook  the  little  square  courtyard 
filled  with  the  white  tents  of  convalescents.  With 
June  not  yet  gone,  it  was  already  arid  with  the  city's 


222  THE  CORTLANDTS 

heat,  and  noisome  with  the  odor  of  gangrene  attendant 
upon  hospitals  before  the  days  of  antiseptics.  The 
doctor  looked  narrowly  at  Ann's  white  face  and  dark 
circled  eyes.  She  had  a  flagellated  look,  he  thought, 
and  wondered  why. 

"I  wonder  if  you  can  stand  a  shock?"  he  questioned. 

Ann  turned  frightened  eyes  upon  him.  "Not 
uncle?"  she  gasped,  with  a  sinking  memory  of  the 
tragedy,  years  ago,  of  the  Arctic. 

Doctor  Small  shook  his  head.  "This  is  good  news," 
he  said,  "or,  at  least,  a  chance  of  it.  You  know  that 
lad  who  was  brought  in  yesterday  ?  The  leg  amputa- 
tion case?" 

"The  one  who  died  in  the  night  ?" 

"Yes.  He  talked  to  me  before  he  died.  It  seems 
he  knew  you." 

"Knew  me?" 

"Yes.  He  was  in  the  Fifty-Fifth.  He  was,  he  says, 
Captain  Renneslyer's  orderly." 

"I  wish  I  had  talked  to  him !  He  might  have  told 
me  something  about  Hendricks." 

"He  did  tell  me.  He  says  he  saw  him,  at  Win- 
chester." 

"At — Winchester?  But  that  was  after  Chancellors- 
ville!"  Ann  put  both  hands  on  the  doctor's  arm  to 
steady  herself.  "Was  he — himself?  Did  he  know1 
what  he  was  saying?" 

"I  think  so.     But,  of  course,  I  can't  be  sure  of  it." 

"Could  they  have  made  such  a  mistake?" 

"The  first  casualty  list  of  every  battle  is  incorrect 
You  know  that." 


ACTION  223 

"But,  Doctor  Small,  how  can  we  find  out?" 

"You  can  telegraph." 

"That's  useless.  We've  been  telegraphing  ever  since 
the  message  came,  trying  to  get  particulars  of  Hen- 
dricks'  death." 

"Then  you  can  only  wait." 

"Wait?  Doctor  Small,  I  can't  wait!  If  my  guar- 
dian were  at  home  he  would  find  out,  if  he  had  to  go 
down  to  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  himself !" 

The  doctor  nodded.  "I  suppose  so,  but  as  he  isn't 
here,  we  must  be  patient." 

Ann's  thoughts  were  chaotic.  ...  If  Hen- 
dricks  lived  her  guardian  would  be  happy  again. 
.  .  .  .  Every  one  would  be  happy.  .  .  .  She 
would  be  happy  herself,  and  she  would  be  freed  from 
her  horrible  assumption  of  grief,  and  of  shame  for 
the  position  in  which  she  found  herself.  She  remem- 
bered how  old  and  broken  her  guardian  had  looked, 
there  on  the  dock  before  he  sailed;  she  had  cried 
looking  at  him.  She  felt  she  must  send  the  good  news 
to  him  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"I  must  write  to  my  uncle,"  she  said.  "I  must  let 
him  know  at  once." 

Doctor  Small  put  a  restraining  hand  on  her  arm. 
"I  wouldn't  do  that,"  he  said  gently,  "wait  until  you 
are  sure.  You  will  only  make  it  harder  for  him  if 
you  encourage  him  to  hope,  and  then  disappoint  him." 

This  was  good  advice  and  Ann  nodded  soberly  as 
she  received  it.  She  went  home  at  once.  It  was, 
she  decided,  imperative  that  she  find  out  whether  Hen- 


224  THE  CORTLANDTS 

dricks  lived  or  not.  There  must,  she  thought,  be  some 
one  who  could  go  to  Virginia.  As  she  hurried 
through  the  streets  she  tried  to  fix  her  mind  on  the  per- 
son, but  in  vain.  She  knew  enough  of  conditions  near 
the  front  to  realize  that  it  required  intense  personal 
interest  to  accomplish  anything  there ;  it  was  not  an  er- 
rand which  one  could  intrust  to  a  clerk.  .  .  .  Hen- 
dricks'  father  was  ill, — he  had  had  a  bronchial  cough 
all  the  late  winter,  and  had  finally  allowed  Mrs.  Ren- 
neslyer  to  take  him  over  to  Washington  for  a  cure  in 
that  more  balmy  air,  with  the  result  that  he  was  miser- 
ably laid  up  there,  in  the  hotel.  .  .  .  All  the  young 
men  she  knew  were  off  fighting.  ...  It  was  a  pity 
that  she  was  a  girl.  .  .  .  She  considered,  for  a  mo- 
ment, putting  the  matter  before  Mrs.  Cortlandt,  and 
urging  her  to  take  the  trip,  but  at  once  she  knew  that 
lady  would  only  echo  the  doctor's  sane  judgment  that 
all  they  could  do  was  to  wait.  Ann  felt  that  it  would 
be  more  than  she  could  endure  if  she  was  forced  to 
hear  that  unanswerable  statement  again.  Her  tired 
nerves  shrank  miserably  from  the  prolonged  emotional 
crisis  into  which  her  news  would  plunge  the  women 
of  her  family.  ...  If  only  she  might  gc*  herself 
to  look  the  matter  up!  She  half  paused,  breathless 
with  desire,  at  the  idea.  .  .  .  Once  at  the  front, 
too,  it  would  be  strange  if  she  could  not  make  some 
connection  with  a  hospital  there.  .  .  .  She  had 
no  conscious  plan,  yet  time  seemed  curiously  precious, 
and  when  she  reached  Washington  Square  she  broke 
into  a  run. 


ACTION  225 

At  the  door  Joseph  told  her  that  Mrs.  Cortlandt  and 
Fanny  had  responded  to  a  call  from  the  Sanitary  Com- 
mission ladies,  and  had  gone  there  to  work.  "Miss 
Fanny,  she  say  to  tell  you  to  come  too,  Miss  Ann. 
They's  a  supper  prepared  by  de  ladies,  and  she  say 
dey  need  you." 

The  girl's  first  sensation  was  relief  at  postponing 
the  telling  of  her  news;  it  would,  she  thought,  give  her 
that  much  more  time  to  find  some  one  to  go  to  Vir- 
ginia. .  .  .  There  was  a  train  at  nine  o'clock. 
.  .  .  Every  one  away,  like  this.  ...  It  was 
providential. 

"I  can't  go,  Joseph,"  she  amazed  herself  by  saying. 
"I  am  leaving  to-night, — for  Philadelphia." 

"Philadelphia,  Miss  Ann?     Where  de  Rebels  is?" 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Hendricks  isn't  dead,  Joseph.  I  have 
to  go  to  find  out" 

There  was  a  great  flurry  of  exclamation  and  excite- 
ment, while  Ann  ate  her  supper,  and  packed  a 
small  traveling  bag.  It  never  occurred  to  any  of  the 
servants  that  it  was  an  unusual  thing  for  her  to  do,  to 
go  off  into  the  night  by  herself,  and  the  girl's  con- 
fidence grew  as  she  realized  that  fact.  Perhaps,  she 
thought,  even  Mrs.  Cortlandt  would  not  think  it  too 
hopelessly  strange. 

Old  Joseph  insisted  on  accompanying  her  to  the 
ferry,  and  in  the  carriage  he  began  to  have  a  change 
of  heart.  "It  don't  seem  right  to  me,  Miss  Ann, — 
you  going  off  all  by  you'self,  dis-a-way,"  he  protested 
from  time  to  time,  unavailingly,  and  at  the  last  mo- 


226  THE  CORTLANDTS 

ment,  when  he  had  carried  her  bag  on  board  the  ferry- 
boat, he  refused  to  leave  her.  "It's  getting  too  dark, 
Miss  Ann,  honey,  f'r  you  to  be  on  de  water  by  you'self. 
I'll  see  you  on  to  de  train."  Ann  was  touched  in 
spite  of  herself,  and  was  glad  to  have  him  with  her, 
too,  as  the  water  was  very  black  away  from  the  dock, 
and  almost  all  the  passengers  were  men,  who  stared  at 
her  persistently.  She  would  not  have  admitted  that 
she  was  nervous,  but  she  was  grateful  to  the  old  negro. 

He  found  a  seat  for  her  in  the  crowded  car,  and 
stood  beside  her,  bareheaded,  as  long  as  he  could, 
fencing  off  any  one  who  might  have  wished  to  share 
her  seat,  and  talking  of  Hendricks  when  he  was  a 
little  boy.  People  looked  curiously  at  the  elegant 
young  woman  attended  by  her  deferential  old  servant, 
but  neither  Joseph  nor  his  mistress  noticed  them. 
"Good  luck,  Miss  Ann,"  he  said,  as  the  conductor 
shouted  "All  aboard."  "De  Lord  be  with  you,  an'  Mr. 
Hendricks." 

All  night  long  there  were  delays  and  rumors  of 
trouble.  Twice  they  were  side-tracked  for  a  train 
of  cavalry, — cars  rilled  with  shouting  men  and  stamp- 
ing horses, — and  once  for  a  load  of  lowing  beef  cattle, 
en  route  for  the  Army  of  the  Potomac.  Ann  could 
not  sleep.  After  her  fellow-passengers  had  settled 
themselves  into  strange  grotesques  of  repose,  while 
the  candles  in  the  spring  sockets  guttered  dimly,  she 
sat  looking  at  the  full  canals  of  New  Jersey,  placid 
and  unreal,  in  the  dim  light  of  a  waning  moon.  .  .  . 
She  knew  that  she  had  involved  herself  in  a  fine 


ACTION  227 

mess,  running  off  in  this  way.  ...  If  her  guar- 
dian had  been  at  home,  of  course  it  wouldn't  have 
been  necessary.  .  .  .  Her  acquaintance  at  the  hos- 
pital had  talked  of  assisting  at  emergency  operations; 
that  was  better  than  writing  notes,  and  reading  aloud, 
under  Mrs.  William's  eagle  eye.  .  .  .  Adventure, — 
that  was  it !  .  .  .  Surely,  once  Hendricks  was  found, 
she  could  manage  to  get  into  a  field  hospital,  if  only 
for  a  few  days.  .  .  .  He  must  be  alive, — she  was 
sure  of  it.  ...  How  overjoyed  her  guardian 
would  be, — and  Hendricks'  mother,  who  could  lay 
aside  the  black  which  made  her  look  so  pathetically 
old.  .  .  .  She  wondered  if  Hendricks  had  her  note 
yet.  .  .  .  She  smiled  reluctantly  at  the  ridiculous 
figure  she  would  cut,  in  her  weeds,  should  he 
actually  face  her  with  it.  ...  She  was  wide  awake 
when  the  dawn  came;  for  a  long  time  the  blank  sky 
was  faintly  streaked  with  mauve,  then  all  at  once  the 
whole  east  burst  dramatically  into  rose  color,  the  sun 
soared  up  with  a  rush  of  light  and  movement,  and  the 
trees  in  the  fields  beside  the  track  flung  long  black 
shadows  after  the  escaping  train.  Ann  watched  the 
transformation  eagerly.  She  was  not  sleepy,  and  she 
wondered  if  Hendricks  were  miraculously  awakening 
to  welcome  this  new  day. 

Philadelphia  was  a  vastly  different  place  from  the 
staid  town  she  had  known  before,  when  visiting  there 
with  her  guardian.  People  thronged  the  streets,  as 
though  it  were  a  holiday,  and  bands  playing  martial 
music  promenaded  through  the  crowd,  followed  by 


228  THE  CORTLANDTS 

huge  canvas  signs  on  which  were  printed  the  names  of 
the  various  regiments  which  men  might  join;  it  was 
an  enormous  advertising  campaign  in  the  interest  of 
enlistment.  The  "Coal  Men's  Regiment,"  and  the 
"Union  League  Brigade"  were  especially  active;  it 
seemed  to  Ann  that  their  banners  hung  from  every 
house;  that  every  boarding  detailed  the  advantages 
they  offered.  Before  the  recruiting  office  at  Twelfth 
and  Girard  Streets,  there  was  such  a  dense  throng  of 
men  eager  to  enlist  that  she  found  some  difficulty  in 
proceeding  on  her  way  to  the  Sanitary  Commission 
rooms.  The  building  was  placarded  with  signs :  "The 
Washington  Grays,"  "Woodward's  Light  Battery," 
"Fall  In,  Men,"  and  an  appeal  to  negro  citizens,  "Men 
of  Color, — come  forward."  It  was  like  the  early  days 
of  the  war,  in  New  York,  only  here  there  was  an  added 
tensity  because  of  the  nearness  of  the  enemy.  All  the 
while,  over  the  hoarse  tumult  of  the  crowd,  the  shrill 
voices  of  newsboys  could  be  heard  calling:  "Confeder- 
ate Cavalry  approaches  Harrisburg!"  And  in  inarticu- 
late answer  Ann  saw  the  men  press  sullenly  forward. 

At  the  Sanitary  Commission  rooms  the  girl  inter- 
viewed the  lady  manageress,  but  she  could  learn  noth- 
ing definite. 

"Miss  Byrne?  Yes?  Oh,  Mr.  Hendricks  Cort- 
landt's  niece?  .  .  .  Won't  you  sit  down ?" 

Ann  did  so  reluctantly.  "I  hate  to  take  the  time 
to,"  she  admitted,  smiling  ingratiatingly  at  her  inter- 
locutor. "You  see, — I  want  to  go  to  the  front.  Do 
you  kno.w  where  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  is?" 


ACTION  229 

"No  one  knows  that,  exactly;  somewhere  in  south- 
ern Pennsylvania,  of  course." 

"I  heard  newsboys  calling  out  that  Lee  has  crossed 
the  Potomac." 

"Yes.  There  will  be  another  terrible  battle  soon. 
You  can  see  how  busy  we  are,  here.  We  weren't  half 
prepared  for  the  losses  at  Antietam,  but  now  we  have 
supplies  enough  on  hand  to  care  for  ten  thousand 
wounded.  The  most  sensible  thing  you  could  do  would 
be  to  settle  down  and  help  us." 

Ann  looked  about  her,  at  the  busy  room.  It  was 
true  that  the  women  were  hard  at  work;  scores  of 
them  were  scraping  lint  and  rolling  bandages.  A 
feverish  panic  of  haste  possessed  every  one,  and  the 
girl  shivered  a  little  at  a  sudden  realization  that  at  that 
moment  there  were  ten  thousand  whole  and  hearty 
young  men,  who,  to-morrow  perhaps, — surely  within 
a  day  or  two, — would,  maimed  and  suffering,  be  in 
need  of  such  supplies.  Somehow  she  couldn't  get  used 
to  the  horror  of  it.  "I  can't  wait,"  she  said  hastily. 
"I  must  get  in  touch  with  the  army,  before  the  battle." 

"But,  my  child,  the  front  is  no  place  for  a  young 
lady.  Surely  you  realize  that?" 

"I  know,  but  my  uncle  is  abroad,  and  we  have  just 
heard  that  Hendricks  Renneslyer,  who  was  reported 
killed,  is  alive.  .  .  .  There  was  no  one  else  to  go. 
.  .  .  I  had  to  find  out  .  .  .  We  were  en- 
gaged, you  see,"  she  added,  in  the  hope  of  softening 
the  stern  eyes  fixed  on  her. 

"I  see."     She  was   still  preoccupied,  but  kinder. 


230  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Before  Ann  could  speak  again  a  breathless  young 
woman  came  hurrying  up  to  report  that  fifty  gallons 
of  soup  had  been  made  and  bottled  in  the  restaurant 
next  door. 

"And  the  lemons  ?"  the  manageress  demanded. 

"We  have  ten  cases  of  them  already  squeezed." 

"Good!  Keep  the  ladies  working.  We  can't  have 
too  much."  She  turned  her  attention  again  to  Ann, 
somewhat  resentfully.  "There  are  still  lemons  to  be 
squeezed,  Miss  Byrne,"  she  said  pointedly. 

"But  I  can  nurse !"  Ann  cried.  "I  have  been  work- 
ing in  the  hospitals  in  New  York  ever  since  they  were 
opened!"  She  was  filled  with  an  enormous  scorn  of 
women  who  were  fit  only  for  squeezing  lemons. 

"Nurse?  So  young?  Extraordinary!  In  Phila- 
delphia! However,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
.  .  .  If  you  can  nurse,  I  dare  say  we  might  find  you 
a  place  on  our  hospital  train;  it  will  start  as  soon  as 
we  get  orders." 

Ann  shook  her  head.  "I  can't  wait,"  she  said  stub- 
bornly. It  was  in  the  lull  before  the  storm  that  she 
wanted  to  make  her  inquiries;  she  had  not  come  so 
far  only  to  arrive  after  everything  was  over. 

"You  would  not  be  allowed  to  go  beyond  Baltimore 
without  a  pass  from  the  governor." 

"How  can  I  get  a  pass?" 

"You  would  have  to  go  to  Harrisburg  for  it, — and 
it  is  a  great  question  if  ydu  could  succeed  in  reaching 
the  capital.  You  know  Ewell  is  raiding  in  that  neigh- 


ACTION  231 

borhood.  We  fear  that  at  any  moment  he  may  cut 
off  the  city." 

"Well,"  Ann  murmured,  regardless  of  high-bred 
Philadelphia  eyebrows  lifted  at  her  expense.  "Harris- 
burg  next." 

She  was  rather  cast  down  at  the  delay,  and  she 
was,  moreover,  afraid  that  Mrs.  Cortlandt  might  suc- 
ceed in  reaching  and  stopping  her.  She  looked  about 
her  for  possible  aid,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the  only  man 
in  the  room.  He  was  a  young  chaplain,  gaunt  of 
figure  and  exalted  of  face.  He  was  looking  at  her 
when  she  noticed  him ;  his  eyes  were  the  sort  in  which 
pity  lies  in  ambush;  he  was  a  young  man  born  to  be 
gulled. 

Ann  went  over  to  him  at  once.  "I  wish  you  would 
help  me,"  she  said,  trustingly  as  a  little  child.  She 
was  rather  tired  from  her  exciting  journey,  and  her 
face  was  white,  and  extraordinarily  touching. 

"Anything  I  can  do!"  stammered  the  young  man. 
"Are  you  in  trouble?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  great  trouble."  Ann  turned  a 
melancholy  gaze  upon  him  and  decided  that  he  fancied 
himself  in  the  role  of  a  Samaritan.  She  sighed  deeply. 
"I  must  get  to  the  front,"  she  said,  "and  I  hear  I 
have  to  have  a  pass,  to  go  beyond  Baltimore." 

"They  are  hard  things  to  get,  these  days,"  he  mur- 
mured sympathetically,  "and  only  fancy, — I  have  one 
here  that  isn't  needed." 

"You  have — a  pass?" 


232  THE  CORTLANDTS 

He  pulled  a  folded  paper  from  his  pocket,  and,  sure 
enough,  it  was  a  pass.  It  bore  the  governor's  neces- 
sary signature,  and  it  was  made  out  to  a  Mrs.  Edward 
Blake.  When  she  looked  up  at  him,  the  young  man 
observed  that  the  girl's  gray  eyes  seemed  suddenly 
black.  "Why  isn't  she, — this  Mrs.  Blake, — going?" 

"Her  son  died  before  she  could  start.  I  went  to 
Harrisburg  for  the  pass,  but  when  I  came  back  with 
it,  it  was  too  late." 

"Oh,  the  poor  woman!  .  .  .  Don't  you  think 
it  seems  a  pity  to  waste  it?" 

He  looked  bewildered  at  this  direct  attack,  so  she 
added  smoothly,  "Of  course  I  know  that  the  governor 
would  give  me  one, — he  is  a  great  friend  of  my  uncle's, 
you  see, — but  I  can't  bear  to  delay.  .  .  .  There's 
going  to  be  this  battle.  ...  I  want  to  get  there 
before  it's  fought.  ...  I  want  to  find  some  one." 
She  paused,  hopeless  of  making  any  one,  even  this 
ruthful  youth,  understand  her  perfectly  good  reasons. 

"Wounded?"  he  interposed  unexpectedly.  There 
was  an  ecstasy  of  sympathy  in  his  tone. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  appraisingly.  What  differ- 
ence did  it  make,  she  thought,  what  methods  she  used, 
if,  in  the  end,  she  won  her  point?  She  nodded  mourn- 
fully. 

"But  you  are  already  wearing  mourning?" 

Slowly  one  of  Ann's  thinly  arched  eyebrows  stole 
slightly  above  its  mate,  and  one  corner  of  her  mouth 
indented  itself  a  very  little,  Yes,  she  decided,  she 


ACTION  233 

could  make  this  young  man  do  whatever  she  wished. 
She  met  the  melancholy  expectation  of  his  look,  and 
then  her  starry  eyes  dwelt  upon  a  vague  distance. 
"Saving  the  flag,"  she  murmured,  with  a  nice  mixture 
of  pride  and  grief  in  her  tone. 

He  clicked  his  tongue  commiseratingly,  and  Ann 
thought  that  he  might  be  about  to  offer  her  the  consola- 
tions of  religion,  so  she  said  hastily:  "If  I  could  only 
have  this  pass!" 

"It  wouldn't  do  you  any  good.  It  isn't  made  out 
to  you." 

"Would  any  one  know  that  ?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  right,"  the  young  clergyman  said 
firmly,  but  a  wave  of  color  swept  from  his  inordinately 
low  collar  to  his  blond  hair. 

"I  suppose  not."     Ann  drooped  again,  hopelessly. 

His  next  remark  was  in  the  nature  of  a  concession. 
"Somebody  might  find  you  out." 

"How  could  they?  .  .  .  And  besides, — no  one 
would  ever  know  where  I  got  it." 

That  was  true.  It  was  the  merest  accident  that  it 
was  in  his  possession.  "I  wish  I  could  give  it  to  you." 

She  turned  pleadingly  to  him,  and  she  laid  one  be- 
seeching hand  upon  his  arm.  "Oh,  do  give  it  to  me! 
If  you  will,  I  can  start  for  Baltimore  at  once.  Please 
let  me  have  it, — please!" 

He  looked  at  the  slender  white  fingers  irresolutely. 
Somehow,  his  was  not  an  arm  upon  which  beautiful 
young  women  often  leaned,  and  he  burned  to  be 


234  THE  CORTLANDTS 

worthy  of  this  appeal.  Ann  swept  her  gray  eyes  up 
to  his.  "You  will,  won't  you?"  she  said  confidently. 
She  held  out  her  other  hand,  trustfully. 

Her  evident  dependence  was  too  much  for  him.  He 
put  the  folded  paper  in  her  outstretched  fingers,  and 
tingled  with  a  delightful  feeling  of  wickedness.  "Of 
course,"  he  said  virtuously,  "I  shouldn't  let  you  have 
it,  if  it  were  not  a  case  of  life  and  death!" 

"No,  of  course  not  ...  I  can  never  thank 
you, — but  I'll  never  forget  you!  .  .  .  Come  on 
down  with  me,  and  help  me  find  my  cab." 

She  wasted  no  time  in  farewells.  Her  cab  was 
waiting,  and  she  vanished  into  its  gloom  with  the 
greatest  expedition,  but  her  pretty  face  popped  out 
again,  as  she  called  to  her  driver,  "To  the  station,— 
quick!"  She  smiled  at  her  benefactor,  standing, 
forlorn,  on  the  sidewalk.  When  she  careened  around 
the  distant  corner,  she  looked  out  again  and  saw  that 
he  was  still  there,  a  stiff  and  reluctant  figure  which 
had  served  her  turn,  and  she  waved  her  hand  out  of 
the  window  with  crazy  gaiety. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ADVENTURES 

As  SHE  took  her  seat  in  the  noon  train,  Ann  ob- 
served that  there  were  fewer  women  traveling  that 
day;  the  car  was  filled  for  the  most  part  with  soldiers. 
They  were  interested  in  her,  that  was  quite  evident, 
for  she  never  looked  up  without  meeting  a  pair  of 
smiling  boyish  eyes,  but  she  was  disposed  to  be  dis- 
creetly shy  with  them,  and  she  struck  up  a  protective 
acquaintance  with  a  grizzled  major  who  was  return- 
ing to  his  regiment  with  one  empty  sleeve.  He  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  a  dubious  sandwich  for  her  when 
the  train  stopped,  and  he  pointed  out  to  her  the  sentries 
guarding  each  railroad  bridge  they  crossed;  they 
seemed  to  her  very  grim  and  competent  He  asked 
her,  after  a  bit,  for  whom  she  was  wearing  mourning, 
and  Ann  plunged  into  an  account  of  her  amazing  situ- 
ation. 

"I  am  wearing  it  for  the  man  I  was  engaged  to," 
she  said.  "And  then  we  heard  a  rumor  that  he  is  still 
living.  I  had  to  find  out,  and  we  couldn't  get  any 
news  through,  so  I  came  on." 

The  major  turned  a  sympathetic  glance  upon  her. 
"You  must  be  awfully  fond  of  him." 

"Not  that,"  Ann  said  impulsively.  "I  was  going  to 
break  my  engagement,  you  see,  and  when  news  of 

235 


236  THE  CORTLANDTS 

his  death  came  and  every  one  felt  so  badly,  I  didn't 
say  anything  about  it.  It  seemed  too  brutal.  .  .  . 
And  so  when  I  heard  that  he  was  alive  I  had  to  know. 
You  can't  imagine  the  burden  of  pretending,  and  be- 
sides it  makes  me  ashamed."  She  broke  off  and 
blushed  a  quick  and  bountiful  red.  She  could  not 
imagine  what  had  made  her  break  out  like  that,  and 
confide  her  extraordinary  troubles  to  a  stranger. 

He  did  not  comment  on  them;  instead  he  ran  a 
humorous  eye  over  her  abysmal  mourning  and  said 
dryly  that  he  should  think  it  would  be  a  comfort  to 
her  to  know. 

She  consulted  him  about  her  probable  destination. 
"Where  do  you  think  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  is?" 
she  demanded. 

"I  am  ordered  to  Frederick  Gty,  as  the  nearest 
railroad  point.  I  should  try  to  go  there,  if  I  were 
you.  It's  your  best  chance  for  information.  You 
might  even  run  into  the  Fifty-Fifth.  No  one  knows. 
You'll  have  to  spend  the  night  in  Baltimore." 

"The  night!"  Ann  echoed,  with  a  sinking  heart 
Nights  on  trains  were  all  very  well,  but  nights  in 
strange  cities  were  more  than  she  had  bargained  for. 
"I — don't  know  any  one  there,"  she  faltered  child- 
ishly. 

The  major  frowned.  "I  do,"  he  said  at  length. 
"I  think  the  woman  who  runs  the  Eutaw  House  would 
remember  me.  I  was  taken  there  when  I  lost  my 
arm,  and  she  was  very  good  to  me.  She'll  look  after 
you,  I  am  sure.  I'll  take  you  to  her." 


ADVENTURES  237 

"Oh,  thank  you!"  murmured  Ann.  How  would 
the  world  revolve,  she  wondered,  if  it  were  not  for 
kindly  men? 

When  the  major  shut  the  door  of  the  rattling  sta- 
tion hack  upon  them,  however,  and  they  started  off 
into  an  unknown  city,  she  had  a  brief  pang  of  disquiet. 
She  wondered  what  Mrs.  Renneslyer  would  say  of 
such  indecorous  behavior,  and  she  shrugged  an  emanci- 
pated shoulder.  As  things  turned  out  she  need  not 
have  had  even  a  passing  misgiving,  for  it  soon  became 
evident  that  the  major  had  but  one  thought,  and  that 
was  to  disburden  himself  of  his  unexpected  charge  as 
quickly  as  possible.  They  had  gone  only  a  block  or 
two  when  he  stuck  his  head  out  of  the  window,  and 
called  to  the  driver  to  hurry. 

"They  say  there's  sure  to  be  a  battle  just  across  the 
Pennsylvania  line,"  he  told  Ann.  "The  place  is  full 
of  rumors.  .  .  .  No  one  knows  just  where  Lee 
is,  and  there's  Rebel  cavalry  raiding  near  Harrisburg. 
.  .  .  In  this  damned  town  they  say  we'll  lose. 
Baltimore  is  full  of  Rebels." 

The  hostess  of  the  Eutaw  House  welcomed  Ann 
querulously.  "Take  you  in?"  she  said  doubtfully. 
"Well,  I  don't  see  as  I  can  do  anything  else.  There 
ain't  a  mite  of  room, — but  I'll  have  to  manage." 

The  major,  on  this  assurance,  took  a  hasty  depart- 
ure. His  back  was  scarcely  turned  when  she  inquired 
shrilly,  "Known  him  long?" 

"Known  who?"  Ann  asked  bewildered.  She  was 
beginning  to  feel  dazed  and  tired. 


238  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"That  major." 

"No.    Just  to-day,  on  the  train." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Well,"  the  landlady  surveyed  Ann's 
mourning,  "many's  the  match  made  like  that,  these 
times.  .  .  .  Here  to-day,  and  gone  to-morrow. 
.  .  .  There's  a  sofy  in  my  room.  I  reckon  you 
can  have  that." 

"I  shan't  sleep  anyway,"  Ann  said  hastily.  Noth- 
ing seemed  more  impossible  to  her  than  that. 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  her  hostess  remarked, 
with  such  sinister  cynicism  that  Ann  asked : 

"What  do  you  mean,— all?" 

"All  of  'em  who  have  the  time  to  sleep.  If  they 
hadn't  a  chance  to  rest  any  more  than  I  have, — then 
I'd  like  to  see  how  they'd  feel  about  sleep!  It's  bad 
enough  running  this  hotel  with  our  own  boys  filling 
it  up.  Don't  know  what  I'll  do  when  the  Rebs  come 
swarming  over  me." 

Ann  turned  a  startled  face.  "Do  you  think  they'll 
take  Baltimore?" 

"Of  course  they  will,  an'  me  an'  my  husband  with 
the  hotel  all  done  over  new  just  before  the  war !  Some 
Secesh  boys  were  around  last  week,  talking  big, 
— but  the  Twenty-Third  Wisconsin  happened  along, 
an'  cleared  'em  out  in  short  order.  .  .  .  Lie  down. 
.  .  .  That's  right  .  .  .  My!  You've  got  a 
sight  of  hair,  even  if  it  is  red.  .  .  .  Shet  your 
eyes  now,  for  heaven's  sake, — or  I'll  stand  here  talk- 
ing all  night." 

Ann  shut  her  eyes  experimentally;  she  was  certain 


ADVENTURES  239 

chat  she  could  not  sleep :  when  she  opened  them  again 
the  morning  sun  was  streaming  into  the  room,  and  her 
hostess  was  standing  over  her,  urging  upon  her  the 
necessity  of  haste,  if  she  were  still  determined  upon 
her  mad  idea  of  catching  the  train  to  Frederick  City. 
As  she  slowly  stretched  out  her  slender  arms  and  flung 
back  her  hands  with  an  energetic  snap,  Ann  could  hear 
the  clamor  of  newsboys  from  the  street  below. 

"Ewell  raids  Cumberland  Valley!  Hooker  orders 
advance !  Great  battle  expected !" 

She  dressed  in  a  bewildered  flurry,  and  protested 
impatiently  as  she  choked  down  the  hot  coffee  and 
corn  bread  brought  her  by  a  weeping  darky  maid. 
She  had  but  one  thought  in  her  mind, — to  get  to  the 
train  before  it  started,  for  now  added  to  her  wish  to 
find  out  if  it  were  true  that  Hendricks  lived,  was  a  de- 
sire to  drink  more  deeply  this  exhilarating  draught  of 
excitement.  If  there  was  going  to  be  an  important  bat- 
tle she  was  determined,  now  that  she  was  so  near,  to 
be  a  part  of  it.  Had  her  guardian  been  in  New  York 
she  would,  perhaps,  have  hesitated,  but  with  only  the 
scandalized  aunts  to  consider,  she  determined  to  go 
on.  She  would  find  out  about  Hendricks,  and  then, 
somewhere,  she  would  find  a  hospital.  .  .  .  Her 
drive  to  the  station — dashing  through  the  crowded 
streets  and  swinging  crazily  around  corners — was 
gorgeously  exhilarating,  and  her  spirits  soared  in  re- 
sponse. The  station  was  the  center  of  excitement,  and 
the  streets  leading  to  it  were  filled  with  people:  they 
tossed  aimlessly  about,  regardless  of  the  hot  July  sun, 


240  THE  CORTLANUTS 

and  shouted  and  gesticulated.  As  she  drove  through 
the  crowd  Ann  caught  scraps  of  news:  the  Confeder- 
ates were  concentrating  their  forces  north  of  the  Po- 
tomac River,  and  Harrisburg  was  in  great  danger. 
Here  and  there  she  heard  execrations  of  General  Lee, 
but  oftener  a  glimpse  of  an  exultant  face  betrayed  the 
presence  of  a  Secessionist  Little  groups  of  men  in 
blue  uniforms  marched  past  her,  clearing  the  street  as 
they  went,  and  once  an  army  band  swung  along  at  the 
head  of  a  whole  regiment,  riving  the  warm  air  with  the 
shrill  clamor  of  fifes. 

The  train  stood  puffing  and  ready  before  the 
station,  and  six  or  eight  soldiers  hung  out  of  every 
window,  shouting  to  their  fellows  on  the  platform,  and 
waving  indiscriminate  greetings.  Ann  was  a  Godsend 
to  them;  the  entire  train  waved  at  her,  with  wild 
gaiety.  She  could  scarcely  make  her  way  through  the 
crowd,  and  when  she  finally  reached  the  ticket  window 
the  agent  hesitated  over  her  request  for  transporta- 
tion to  Frederick  City,  but  the  eloquent  plea  of  her 
deep  mourning,  as  well  as  the  governor's  signature  on 
the  pass  she  mutely  offered  him,  overcame  his  scruples. 
When  the  train  started  she  was  sitting  in  it,  surrounded 
by  admiring  young  soldiers  who  were  joyfully  dis- 
posed to  forget  their  threatened  baptism  of  fire  in  the 
presence  of  the  pretty  girl.  There  was  no  question, 
to-day,  of  her  withdrawing  from  their  attentions ;  the 
boys  were  wildly  excited  at  the  prospect  of  an  imme- 
diate battle,  and  Ann  was  softened  by  a  grim  real- 
ization that  these  skylarking  youngsters  might  be 


ADVENTURES  241 

among  the  ill-fated  ten  thousand  for  whom  sinister 
preparations  were  being  made;  she  would  not  have 
snubbed  them  even  if  she  could  have  done  so,  which 
was  doubtful.  They  swarmed  about  her,  firing  eager 
questions  at  her,  and  told  one  another  that  she  was  "a 
plucky  one,  all  right !"  Their  very  numbers  made  her 
at  ease  with  them. 

The  train  made  poor  time;  often  it  backed  mysteri- 
ously up  the  track  it  had  so  laborously  traversed,  while 
the  boys  shouted  hilariously,  "We've  changed  our 
minds!  We  aren't  going  to  fight  the  Johnnies,  after 
all!" — and  sometimes  it  stopped  for  long  intervals, 
for  no  apparent  reason.  When  that  happened  the  sol- 
diers swarmed  out  along  the  right  of  way,  shouting 
and  leaping  like  little  boys.  One  of  them  brought  a 
stalk  of  goldenrod  back  to  Ann,  and  she  stuck  it  in  her 
belt  It  made  a  gay  note  of  color  on  her  black  weeds. 
She  fidgeted  uneasily  at  each  new  delay,  for  she  was 
still  afraid  of  being  turned  back.  Even  a  trainload  of 
forlorn  Rebel  prisoners,  caught  in  a  raid  and  rushing 
northward,  did  not  distract  her  for  long. 

At  the  Monocacy  River,  three  miles  from  Frederick 
City,  they  came  to  a  final  halt.  The  bridge  was  un- 
safe, the  train  men  announced,  and  every  one  was 
hurried  off  the  cars,  into  the  blinding  heat  of  a  late 
June  afternoon.  Immediately  the  officers  began  col- 
lecting their  men  in  some  sort  of  order;  as  Ann  stood, 
bewildered,  waiting-  for  events  to  shape  her  next  move, 
she  saw  the  advance  column  march  off  down  the 
rutted,  dusty  road.  The  men  walked  lightly,  almost 


242  THE  CORTLANDTS 

gaily,  and  the  refrain  of  a  popular  song  drifted  back 
to  her  as  they  went. 

As  she  stood  somewhat  forlornly  a  young  captain 
came  hurrying  up  to  her.  "Where  are  you  going?" 
he  asked  curtly. 

"To  Frederick  City,"  Ann  replied,  turning  wide  and 
confident  eyes  upon  him.  "I  am  trying  to  find  Captain 
Renneslyer.  He  was  with  the  Fifty-Fifth  New  York. 
Do  you  know  where  that  regiment  is?" 

"No, — and  you  can't  go  wandering  around  this 
country.  There's  likely  to  be  a  battle  almost  any- 
where, anytime.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  go 
back  to  Baltimore." 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  doing  that,"  Ann  protested. 
She  disliked  this  disagreeable  young  man,  and  she  ran 
her  eyes  indifferently  over  his  person,  so  that  he  might 
know  it. 

"Sorry,"  he  said,  "but  back  you  go.  Get  right  into 
this  train  again, — the  one  you  came  down  in.  It  will 
be  leaving  in  a  few  minutes." 

"I  won't  do  anything  o'f  the  kind,"  Ann  declared 
furiously. 

The  officer  laughed.  "I'm  in  command  here,"  he 
reminded  her.  "It's  an  order." 

Ann's  defiance  melted  under  his  confidence.  "I 
don't  want  to  go  back,"  she  said  querulously.  "Not 
yet."  Her  plea  died  as  he  took  her  elbow  in  a  firm 
grasp,  and  propelled  her  to  the  train.  She  had  an 
uncomfortable  idea  that  if  she  didn't  get  on  board 


ADVENTURES  243 

herself,  he  would  lift  her  to  the  platform,  so  she 
hastily  scrambled  up  the  steps. 

"That's  a  good  girl,"  the  captain  said,  smiling  fatu- 
ously upon  her.  "You're  too  pretty  to  run  any  risk 
of  getting  shot!" 

To  escape  further  humiliation  Ann  went  into  the 
car,  and  sat  down.  She  was  vehemently  angry,  but 
quite  impotent.  From  her  window  she  could  see  the 
captain's  back,  and  she  scowled  at  it  helplessly.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight  to  whom  she  might  appeal.  .  .  . 
Presently  a  covered  black  wagon  drove  up  to  the 
train,  and  a  crooked  old  driver  climbed  laboriously 
down  to  open  the  door  in  the  rear.  Ann  watched  him 
curiously:  there  was  nothing  else  for  her  to  do.  A 
bevy  of  young  women  swarmed  surprisingly  out  of  the 
wagon;  it  was  incredible  that  it  could  have  held  so 
many  hoop  skirts,  and  so  many  agitated  and  fluttering 
girls.  A  calm  nun  followed  them,  prim  and  self-con- 
tained and  hot,  in  her  coif  and  black  habit;  while 
her  flock  boarded  the  train  she  stopped  to  speak  to  the 
driver.  The  girls  came  trooping  into  Ann's  car, 
chattering  excitedly.  Two  of  them  sat  down  in  the 
seat  ahead  of  her,  and  turned  to  smile,  in  friendly 
fashion. 

"Where  are  you  all  from?"  Ann  demanded. 

"The  Convent  School  at  Emmettsburg.  We  all  live 
in  the  North,  and  the  Mother  Superior  is  sending  us 
home  just  because  she  thinks  there  may  be  a  battle 
around  here  somewhere.  Isn't  it  mean?" 


244  THE  CORTLANDTS 

The  other  girl  interrupted  eagerly,  "There  were  sol- 
diers in  the  convent  grounds  this  morning,"  she  de- 
clared, round-eyed.  "They  gave  their  horses  a  drink, 
and  the  Mother  Superior  sent  milk  out  to  the  men." 

"What  regiment  ?"  Ann  asked  in  idle  curiosity. 

"The  Fifty-Fifth  New  York." 

Ann  shot  to  her  feet  "I'm  going!"  she  declared 
hotly. 

"Going  where  ?" 

"To  find  the  Fifty-Fifth!" 

"She  has  a  lover  in  it !"  one  of  the  girls  whispered 
•tomantically. 

Stooping,  Ann  reconnoitered.  The  nun  had  turned 
toward  the  train,  and  the  old  driver  was  beginning  to 
climb  to  his  high  seat.  The  captain's  uniformed  back 
was  plainly  to  be  seen,  two  car-lengths  away.  The 
engine  came  suddenly  to  life,  and  the  long  train  jerked 
violently:  Ann  caught  the  seat  back  to  avoid  being 
thrown  down,  and  then  swung  herself  into  the  aisle. 
.  .  .  At  the  door  she  almost  ran  down  the  placid 
nun.  ...  On  the  step  she  halted.  The  captain 
was  talking  with  the  train  conductor,  whose  gesticula- 
tions toward  the  engine  kept  him  facing  that  way,  and 
the  bus  was  beginning  to  move  off,  in  a  leisurely  and 
inviting  fashion.  The  train  made  a  convulsive  start, 
and  Ann  leaped  to  the  ground.  The  door  in  the  end 
of  the  departing  bus  had  swung  open  with  the  jolt  of 
its  first  motion ;  there  was  dark  sanctuary  within.  She 
cast  a  frantic  glance  at  the  unconscious  officer,  and 
sprang  after  it.  The  horses  were  barely  started ;  she 


ADVENTURES  245 

caught  up  easily,  and  grasping  the  hand  rail  in  the  rear, 
she  bolted  into  the  dusty  hot  interior  of  the  covered 
wagon.  Immediately  she  peered  out;  the  train  was 
moving,  and  the  captain  had  taken  off  his  cap,  in  salute 
to  it, — to  her,  Ann  hoped,  grinning.  She  settled  her- 
self deliberately  in  the  most  comfortable  corner,  and 
marveled  at  the  ease  of  her  escape.  She  was  delighted 
to  have  won  in  her  encounter  with  the  captain;  her 
sense  of  triumph  drowned  any  doubts  she  might  have 
had  at  the  wisdom  of  her  course. 

It  was  a  forlorn  way  they  traveled,  for  the  fences 
had  been  torn  from  before  the  houses,  to  be  used  for 
fuel,  and  the  straggling  gardens  had  been  trampled 
by  careless  hundreds.  The  convent  bus  circled  around 
Frederick  City,  with  its  needle  points  of  church  spires, 
and  the  horses  dropped  to  a  walk  along  a  badly  worn 
road  that  cut  a  straight  swath  across  the  fields;  the 
country  rolled  off  on  all  sides  of  the  little  city,  lovely 
and  fruitful,  with  sharp  edged,  broad  hillsides  of 
golden  standing  crops.  No  landscape  could  have  been 
more  peaceful,  and  it  seemed  to  Ann  impossible  that 
it  should  be  the  setting  of  a  great  and  terrible  battle. 
.  .  .  The  road  meandered  pleasantly  up  and  down 
long  hillsides.  Through  the  open  door  in  the  back 
Ann  could  see  the  mountains  that  half-circled  the  yel- 
low fields.  The  range  lay  massive,  and  yet  strangely 
delicate,  a  soft  violet  color,  in  the  swimming  heat 
haze.  Now  and  then  clouds  sailing  over  it  swept  a 
downy  shadow  across  its  mobile  surface,  and  Ann 
watched  the  marvel,  entranced.  Looking  back  at  the 


246  THE  CORTLANDTS 

mountains  she  forgot  all  about  her  immediate  dis- 
comfort of  heat  and  dust  and  hunger;  she  even  found 
it  difficult  to  remember  the  urgency  of  her  quest;  she 
wanted  only  to  lose  herself  in  magnificent  and  im- 
personal beauty,  and  she  luxuriated  in  the  feeling  of 
unimportance  it  gave  her.  .  .  .  She  wished  that 
she  had  some  one  there  with  her,  close  beside  her,  with 
whom  she  might  share  her  joy.  .  .  .  Some  per- 
fect companion ;  she  had  no  actual  visualization,  only 
a  sense  of  un fulfillment.  .  .  .  Now  and  then  the 
ruts  in  the  road  jolted  her  back  to  her  immediate  sur- 
roundings. She  ate  the  gritty  dust,  and,  as  the  long 
summer  day  declined,  she  felt  very  tired.  ...  A 
blood-red  sunset  turned  the  mountains  moulten,  and  un- 
der it  the  straw  colored  standing  crops  flushed  pink. 
.  .  .  Another  night.  .  .  .  Ann  wondered  un- 
easily what  her  reception  might  be  at  the  convent. 
Suddenly  the  bus  ceased  lurching  and  groaning,  and 
ran  smoothly  over  a  good  road.  Ann  looked  out ;  her 
unconscious  driver  had  turned  in  between  iron  gates, 
and  was  taking  her  down  a  well-kept  driveway.  Her 
view  of  the  mountains  was  abruptly  cut  off.  She  stood 
up  and  peered  through  a  tiny  peep-hole  in  the  front. 
All  that  she  could  see  was  the  austere  black  outline  of  a 
cross,  high  against  the  angry  sky.  .  .  .  Across  her 
weary  mind  flashed  a  confused  memory  of  Densley. 
.  .  .  He  had  talked  of  Catholic  churches  abroad. 
.  .  .  Crosses  on  cathedrals.  .  .  .  The  driveway 
swerved,  and  the  peep-hole  showed  only  the  thick 


ADVENTURES  247 

green  of  trees.  ...  In  a  moment  they  had  ar- 
rived before  a  high  front  stoop,  and  stopped. 

A  woman's  voice  asked,  "Any  mail,  David?" 

"No,  Sister." 

"Did  you  bring  anything  back  with  you?" 

"No,  Sister." 

The  bus  vibrated  uneasily,  as  the  tired  horses 
gathered  themselves  together  for  a  last  effort,  which 
should  carry  them  to  the  barn.  Ann  knew  that  the 
moment  of  revealment  had  come,  and  she  reluctantly 
poked  her  abashed  face  out  of  the  door.  "Yes,  he 
did,"  she  said  falteringly.  "He  brought  me." 

The  old  driver  got  down  off  his  seat  with  amazing 
alacrity,  and  ran  around  to  the  rear  of  the  bus.  "Great 
God  Jehovah!"  he  murmured  piously,  when  his  eyes 
fell  on  Ann. 

On  the  top  of  the  high  steps  was  a  pretty  nun; 
under  her  white  coif  her  face  looked  extraordinarily 
young  and  childlike.  Her  eyes  met  Ann's  with  an 
unmistakable  sparkle  of  amusement.  "Did  you  get 
in  without  David's  knowing  it?"  she  demanded. 

Ann  nodded,  and  ran  up  the  steps.  "I  had  to  come," 
she  said,  "I  am  looking  for  an  officer, — Captain  Ren- 
neslyer." 

The  nun  nodded  in  her  turn.  "Come  in,"  she  said, 
slipping  her  arm  through  the  newcomer's,  "and  tell 
the  Mother  Superior  all  about  it." 

Ann's  heart  sank,  but  when  she  was  face  to  face 
with  the  wise  and  kindly  head  of  the  convent  school 


248  THE  CORTLANDTS 

she  found  little  difficulty  in  telling  her  story,  and  she 
thankfully  agreed  to  stop  for  the  night.  She  occupied 
one  of  the  scholar's  empty  cubicles,  and  the  gay  little 
Sister  brought  her  supper  on  a  tray,  chatting  with  her 
while  she  ate  it.  She  was  full  of  the  excitement  of 
soldiers  in  the  convent  close,  but  she  knew  nothing 
of  the  personnel  of  the  troops. 

Ann  slept  for  twelve  hours,  lost  to  the  world  and 
her  plight.  When  she  awoke  she  glanced  bewilderedly 
about  the  white  room  where  she  lay.  A  girl  sat  look- 
ing at  her,  very  grave  and  silent. 

"Oh,"  Ann  said,  after  a  moment's  stare.  "I  re- 
member." 

"You  came  in  here  last  night,  dead  beat." 

"You're  not  a  nun,  are  you?" 

"No, — but  I  reckon  I'll  likely  be  one.  .  .  .  I'm 
just  a  boarding  scholar  here.  .  .  .  You  know  the 
Sisters  had  a  school,  but  they  have  sent  all  the  girls 
home  who  could  get  there.  ...  I  live  in  Mis- 
issippi.  I've  never  heard  from  my  folks  in  six  months, 
and  so  I'm  here.  That's  all." 

Ann  stretched  out  a  sympathetic  hand.  She  could 
not  have  believed  it  possible  to  have  so  complete  a 
sense  of  kinship  with  a  Rebel.  "I'm  sorry!"  she 
murmured  impotently. 

The  girl  laughed  harshly,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
the  friendly  hand.  "You're  a  Federal, — that's  \vhat 
you  are!  I  don't  want  your  pity!  We'll  beat  you 
yet!"  All  at  once  she  crumpled  up  beside  the  bed  in  a 
flood  of  tears;  Ann  had  never  seen  any  one  cry  so 


ADVENTURES  249 

hard ;  she  felt  her  hand  taken  in  a  fierce  grip.  "Oh," 
gasped  the  stranger,  "I  don't  half  know  what  I'm  say- 
ing !  I've  got  a  lover.  He  is  in  the  fighting,  of  Course. 
And  I  never  hear, — not  a  word, — ever!" 

Ann  murmured  ineffectual  comfortings;  she  envied 
this  girl  the  genuine  passion  of  her  grief.  When  she 
had  thought  Hendricks  lost,  she  had  been  unable  to 
feel  like  that.  ...  "I  am  looking  for  a  soldier," 
she  announced.  "That  is  why  I  am  here." 

"There  were  Federal  troops  here  yesterday, — the 
Fifty-Fifth  New  York." 

"I  know.  Did  you  see, — or  hear  anything  of, — Cap- 
tain Renneslyer?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.    "No.    I  didn't  go  down." 

There  came  a  sharp  knock  on  the  door,  and  the 
pretty  nun  thrust  her  face  into  the  crack.  "Good 
morning,"  she  said.  "Do  you  know  anything  about 
bandage  making?  And  scraping  lint?" 

"Do  I?    I  did  nothing  else  for  six  months!" 

"Then  dress  quickly,  and  come  down.  The  battle 
will  be  right  here  in  Emmetsburg!  General  Hooker  is 
concentrating  all  his  army  here,  the  grocer's  boy  said 
so!  And  every  one  knows  that  Lee  holds  the  moun- 
tain passes:  the  Confederates  are  just  pouring  down 
every  road.  Listen !" 

The  girls  did  so.  Ann  was  immediately  conscious 
of  a  dull  rumbling  sound,  distant  and  continuous. 
"What  is  it?" 

"Federal  cannon  on  the  corduroy  road.  They  have 
been  going  by  for  an  hour  now.  The  Mother  Supe- 


250  THE  CORTLANDTS' 

rior  says  that  the  convent  will  undoubtedly  be  used  for 
a  hospital!  Think  of  it!  And  we  have  no  dressings. 
All  the  Sisters  are  gathered  in  the  refectory,  cutting 
the  linen  into  strips.  .  .  .  Come  quickly,  and 
show  us  howl" 

Ann's  intention  had  been  to  start  very  early  in  the 
morning,  but  she  could  not  refuse  this  urgent  request. 
For  hours  she  showed  the  panicky  nuns  how  to  scrape 
lint  and  roll  bandages.  She  wondered  what  sort  of 
nursing  the  wounded  men  would  get  if  they  should 
be  carried  into  the  convent.  She  was  eager  to  be 
gone,  for  she  knew  that  she  could  never  bring  herself 
to  leave,  once  the  place  was  really  turned  into  a  hospi- 
tal, but  the  Mother  Superior  was  quite  firm  in  forbid- 
ding any  such  thing.  "You  must  stay  here,  my  daugh- 
ter, as  long  as  the  convent  is  tenable,"  she  said 
smoothly.  "It  may  be  that  we  shall  all  be  driven  out. 
Your  troops  are  mounting  cannon  in  our  peach 
orchard." 

Soldiers  in  blue  swarmed  all  over  the  convent 
grounds.  They  came  from  Michigan ;  they  were  back- 
woodsmen, friendly  and  noisy,  and  the  nuns  retired 
before  them  to  gather  in  the  cupola,  where  they  might 
peep  down  unmolested.  It  seemed  quite  likely  that  this 
spot  might  prove  the  center  of  a  battle,  and  Ann's 
nerves  tingled  at  the  thought.  She  looked  at  the  mys- 
terious mountains  without  a  trace  of  her  previous 
enchantment,  for  down  their  dark  defiles  enemy  sol- 
diers were  marching,  sinister  and  dangerous. 

Before  supper  the  Mother  Superior  called  together 


ADVENTURES  251 

the  half-dozen  southern  girls  who  remained  in  the 
school.  "I  have  decided  to  send  you  north,  my  daugh- 
ters," she  announced,  "and  Miss  Byrne,  too.  I  can 
not  take  the  responsibility  of  keeping  you  here." 

The  girls  looked  at  one  another  with  white  and 
recalcitrant  faces,  but  only  Ann  ventured  to  protest. 
"We  can  never  get  through  to  Frederick  City,  with 
our  artillery  coming  up  the  pike.'* 

The  Mother  Superior  smiled.  "At  ten  o'clock  every 
morning  a  train  leaves  Gettysburg  for  the  North, 
and  I  have  advices  that  the  road  is  passable  in  that 
direction.  .  .  .  You  can  all  be  accommodated  in 
the  convent  at  Harrisburg  until  you  have  had  time  to 
communicate  with  your  families.  You,  too,  Miss 
Byrne.  I  can  not  take  the  responsibility  of  having 
you  remain  here." 

The  idea  of  leaving  Emmettburg,  where  a  great  bat- 
tle was  about  to  be  fought,  and  going  to  an  unheard- 
of  little  junction  like  Gettysburg,  was  almost  more  than 
Ann  could  bear.  She  longed  for  the  courage  to  refuse 
to  be  disposed  of  in  so  high-handed  a  fashion,  but 
there  was  a  certain  definiteness  about  the  Mother  Supe- 
rior, and,  immediately  after  breakfast,  she  allowed 
herself  to  be  packed,  together  with  seven  other  girls, 
into  the  convent  bus. 

She  had  been  right,  the  road  was  blocked,  but  old 
David  drove  them  by  mysterious  by-ways  across  the 
fields,  and  did  not  turn  into  the  pike  until  he  was  well 
ahead  of  the  crowd,  and  had  only  mounted  officers,  and 
now  and  then,  an  advance  group  of  Buford's  cavalry- 


252  THE  CORTLANDTS 

men,  to  contend  with.  Looking  back,  Ann  could  fol- 
low the  slow  progression  of  the  artillery  by  the  cloud 
of  yellow  dust  that  hung  over  it.  The  horses  made 
better  time  than  they  had  done  the  day  before,  and  the 
girls  were  thrown  against  one  another,  as  the  bus 
bumped  over  the  rough  corduroy  road.  The  six  south- 
erners were  delighted  at  the  idea  of  going  to  Gettys- 
burg, for  a  passing  officer  told  them  that  he  had  heard 
the  place  was  in  the  possession  of  the  Confederate 
cavalry.  Ann's  pensive  friend  of  the  morning  before 
was  radiant.  "Now  you'll  see  what  real  soldiers  look 
like,"  she  told  Ann,  wrinkling  her  little  nose  at  a 
company  of  men  in  blue  uniforms,  plodding  along  in 
the  dust  of  their  wake. 

There  was  nothing  for  Ann  to  say;  she  hated  the 
thought  of  entering  a  conquered  Pennsylvania  town 
with  a  bevy  of  Rebel  girls,  and  her  impatience  at  being 
coerced  rose  high.  She  wanted  to  get  out  of  the  con- 
vent bus,  and  join  the  blue-clad  army, — her  army, — 
and  her  old  regret  at  being  a  girl  again  overwhelmed 
her. 

About  five  miles  out  of  town  they  left  the  Union 
troops  behind  them.  The  road  seemed  all  at  once 
amazingly  tranquil  and  rural,  with  the  convent  bus 
all  alone  on  it. 

Gettysburg  was  strangely  quiet  as  they  drove  into 
it  There  were  no  children  playing  in  the  streets,  and 
the  square  in  the  center  of  the  town  was  deserted. 
There  were  no  soldiers  to  be  seen,  either;  it  was  like 
a  place  under  a  spell.  At  the  station  they  found  the 


ADVENTURES  253 

Harrisburg  train  waiting  to  start,  but  no  one  could 
say  when.  The  nun  in  charge  of  the  young  women 
decided  to  take  them  aboard,  and  there  await  events. 
The  cars  were  partly  filled  with  refugees, — little  fam- 
ily groups  of  men,  women,  children,  and  household 
goods.  Every  one  was  talking  excitedly  of  the  possi- 
bility of  Ewell's  cavalry  holding  the  train  up.  The 
girls  took  their  seats  unwillingly;  they  were  anxious 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  a  gray  uniform,  and  they  sulked 
before  their  guardian  Sister's  face,  and  complained 
behind  her  back.  Ann  hated  them,  and,  rather  than 
talk  to  them,  she  made  friends  with  a  woman  across 
the  aisle  and  listened  to  her  tale  of  having  seen  a 
Union  soldier  shot. 

"It  was  right  at  the  west  end  of  Chambersburg 
Street  the  day  before  yesterday,"  she  said.  "He 
lay  with  his  arms  stretched  out,  and  his  face  up  to  the 
sun.  ...  It  was  awful  hot.  ...  I  hated  to 
see  him  lying  there,  and  as  soon  as  the  Rebs  went  off 
down  the  street,  I  ran  out  and  dragged  him  into  the 
shade.  He  was  dead, — and  he  was  Bert  West.  I'd 
known  him  all  his  life.  He  volunteered  in  the  Gettys- 
burg cavalry,  when  Lee's  men  began  to  raid  around 
here." 

Ann  could  see  that  the  southern  girls  considered 
this  death  an  achievement.  She  felt  that  she  could 
not  endure  the  brief  time  with  them  until  the  train 
reached  Harrisburg. 

All  at  once  the  nun  remembered  that  she  had  not 
bought  the  tickets,  and  arose  in  a  great  flurry  to  get 


254  THE  CORTLANDTS 

them.  Ann,  observing  her  jailer's  panicky  rush  to  the 
station,  smiled  grimly.  All  at  once  she  was  filled  with 
a  sense  of  security; — she  rose  tranquilly  and  strolled 
to  the  rear  door  of  the  car.  The  girls,  hating  the 
northerner,  allowed  her  to  go  in  silence,  and  she  walked 
calmly  down  the  steps  and  across  the  platform.  The 
main  street  lay  before  her,  hot  and  empty,  and  she 
marched  briskly  off  down  it.  It  was  as  simple  as  that ; 
no  one  noticed  her  departure;  there  was  not  so  much 
as  an  exclamation  over  it 


CHAPTER  XX 

GETTYSBURG 

ANN  found  shelter  in  a  little  house  on  Chambers- 
burg  Street :  she  felt  sure  that  it  must  be  respectable 
because  it  stood  next  door  to  a  righteous-appearing 
Lutheran  Church,  and  she  liked  the  look  of  the  place 
besides.  There  were  red  geraniums  in  the  front  yard 
and  a  heavy  green  vine  over  the  door.  She  liked  its 
hostess  also.  She  had  found  her  trimming  the  gera- 
niums with  an  extraordinary  placidity,  in  view  of  the 
fact  that  there  were  said  to  be  enemy  soldiers  in 
Gettysburg.  She  welcomed  a  lodger  whose  resentment 
over  this  fact  was  as  high  as  her  own,  and  Ann  gath- 
ered that  her  attention  to  her  flower-beds  was  merely  a 
contemptuous  gesture. 

"The  people  over  there,"  she  said,  pointing  across 
the  street,  "are  Secessionists." 

She  took  Ann  into  her  stuffy  little  house  and  brought 
her  cold  water  from  the  pump  in  the  back  yard.  When 
the  girl  had  washed  away  the  dust  of  her  journey,  the 
two  settled  down  in  the  stifling  parlor  to  talk,  and 
to  watch  from  behind  the  Nottingham  curtains  for  a 
glimpse  of  Rebel  soldiers.  The  little  town  remained 
ominously  silent:  Ann  could  plainly  hear  the  clamor 
of  the  train  to  Harrisburg,  when  it  finally  started.  It 
was  louder  than  anything  else  except  the  persistent 
squeak  of  her  hostess*  rocker. 

255 


256  THE  CORTLANDTS 

A  little  boy  came  running  down  the  street  shouting, 
and  as  he  came  near  they  could  hear  that  he  was 
calling:  "The  Rebs  are  coming!"  Ann  ran  out  into 
the  front  yard  to  question  him. 

"There's  a  whole  brigade  with  wagons;  they're 
after  clothing  and  shoes.  That's  all  I  know !  Lemme 
go  on !" 

The  two  women  hastened  to  lock  up  the  house ;  dis- 
regarding the  stifling  heat,  they  even  closed  the  win- 
dows and  fastened  the  plugs  in  the  frames. 

"Shoes  and  clothing!"  snorted  the  hostess.  "If  I 
had  my  way  the  whole  Confederate  Army  would  go 
barefoot  and  naked !" 

Suddenly  into  the  stillness  of  the  house  broke  clamor- 
ous sounds, — shouts  and  the  thunder  of  horses'  feet. 

"That's  from  the  Emmetsburg  Pike,  it  must  be  our 
men !" 

"It's  Buford's  Cavalry, — it  must  be!" 

They  opened  the  door  and  the  noise  came  louder. 
It  was  infinitely  reassuring.  As  they  watched,  the  end 
of  the  street  was  filled  with  a  great  cloud  of  dust, 
and  suddenly  a  front  rank  of  cavalry  broke  through 
it,  and  bulked  huge  and  black  against  it.  The  men 
thundered  down  the  street  four  abreast,  followed  rank 
on  rank  by  their  fellows.  They  sat  their  horses 
jauntily  and  their  blue  caps  were  rakishly  set.  Women 
waved  their  handkerchiefs  to  them  as  they  passed  by, 
and  the  soldiers  called  out  greetings,  and  laughed  as 
they  rode  to  the  attack.  In  five  minutes  they  were 


GETTYSBURG  257 

gone;  in  half  an  hour  they  came  loafing  back,  gay 
with  triumph. 

"We  drove  'em  out  all  right !"  a  blond  Swede  from 
Illinois  told  Ann,  as  he  stopped  to  drink  the  water  she 
offered  him.  "They  ran  all  the  way  to  the  creek. 
They  were  in  a  good  position  there ;  we  weren't  strong 
enough  to  attack  'em." 

"Where  are  you  going  now?" 

"We  are  ordered  to  camp  on  the  ridge  by  the  semi- 
nary on  the  other  side  of  town,  but  we  are  placing 
vedettes  on  all  the  roads.  They  say  General  Reynolds 
has  been  ordered  to  occupy  the  town :  looks  as  if  this 
is  the  place  all  right.  It's  a  pity  you  ladies  aren't  safe 
away." 

Ann  laughed.  "I  can  nurse,"  she  said.  "If  there 
is  going  to  be  a  battle  I  can  be  useful." 

"Why  don't  you  report  to  the  Medical  Corps  ?  They 
have  taken  over  the  seminary  building  for  a  hospital. 
It's  likely  we'll  need  a  big  place  like  that  before  we  get 
through  around  here.  Why  don't  you  follow  along 
after  us?  We've  a  lot  of  sunstroke  cases  already." 

Into  Ann's  mind  rushed  the  tales  she  had  heard  of 
field  hospitals  and  the  atrocious  care  men  received  in 
them, — care  vastly  different  from  the  well  equipped 
wards  in  which  she  had  worked.  She  reflected  that 
the  Sanitary  Commission  would  be  along  presently; 
she  might  take  charge,  for  a  day  or  two,  and  show 
them  how  to  run  a  hospital.  Her  uncle  would  be  proud 
of  her  when  he  heard  her  story. 


258  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"I  am  going,"  she  said  to  her  hostess.  "I  have 
worked  for  a  year  and  a  half  in  hospitals  in  New 
York." 

The  woman  smiled  at  her  anxiously.  "Reckon  you 
belong  there,  then,"  she  said  reluctantly,  "but  I  kind 
of  hate  to  see  you  go  off  like  this." 

Her  dubious  glance  followed  Ann  down  the  street 
and  gave  the  girl  a  warm  sense  of  being  looked  after. 
She  thought  that  she  would  always  remember  this  kind 
friend  bound  to  her  by  such  exciting  events.  It  was 
not  until  she  had  crossed  the  town  that  it  struck  her 
she  did  not  know  her  hostess'  name. 

There  was  great  confusion  at  the  seminary,  which 
was  being  transformed  from  a  school  into  a  hospital 
with  a  speed  in  which,  it  seemed  to  Ann,  there  was 
a  sort  of  panic.  The  sunstroke  cases  were  all  on  the 
top  floor,  close  under  the  hot  roof,  where  the  beds 
the  students  had  left  were  ready  for  them.  As  she 
passed  through  the  intervening  floors  in  her  search 
for  the  doctor  in  charge,  it  became  evident  to  her  that 
the  Union  officers  expected  vast  casualties  and  were 
making  grim  preparations  to  care  for  them,  but  she 
found  the  doctor  rather  indifferent  to  her  proffered 
assistance.  He  had,  he  said,  half  a  dozen  men  nurses, 
whom  he  had  picked  up  in  Gettysburg,  and  Ann's  de- 
lightful dream  of  running  a  hospital  single-handed 
until  her  friends  of  the  Sanitary  Commission  arrived, 
was  shattered  on  the  spot.  Instead  she  set  humbly  to 
work  bringing  cold  water  to  the  patients,  and  fanning 
them  as  they  lay  exhausted.  No  one  of  them  was 


GETTYSBURG  259 

alarmingly  ill,  and  as  the  darkness  settled  down  they  all 
went  to  sleep.  There  was  nothing  for  Ann  to  do, 
and  if  she  had  known  the  name  of  her  friend  in  town, 
or  even  the  street  on  which  she  lived,  she  would  have 
returned  there  for  the  night,  but  as  she  did  not,  she 
found  instead  an  empty  room  in  the  seminary,  and 
locked  herself  into  it. 

The  seminary  yard  was  crowded  with  troops;  the 
men  lay  about  on  the  grass  laughing  and  talking,  so 
Ann  kept  her  curtains  drawn  until  she  blew  out  her 
candle.  Her  window  faced  the  mountains,  and  when 
jhe  threw  it  open  she  gasped  in  amazement.  The 
tiight  was  velvet  black  and  the  stars  in  the  sky  were 
'iot  shining  dots;  Ann  could  follow  the  outline  of  the 
mountain  range  only  where  it  cut  arbitrarily  against 
them.  The  long  swelling  slope  was  invisible,  but  on 
it  were  myriads  of  points  of  light,  bright  and  hot  like 
the  stars,  only  nearer  and  more  flickering.  They  were 
the  camp-fires  of  the  enemy,  and  as  she  looked  at  them 
Ann  thrilled  with  a  sensation  that  was  as  much  antici- 
pation as  fear. 

The  next  morning  the  girl  was  awakened  by  picket 
firing  down  the  pike.  She  sprang  up,  dazed,  and  for 
a  moment  glared  about  her  wildly  at  her  strange  room. 
There  were  no  more  volleys,  but  down  in  the  yard  be- 
neath her  window  there  was  a  great  turmoil.  Peering 
out  she  saw  that  a  wagon  had  been  backed  up  to  the 
main  door  and  that  two  or  three  men  were  being 
taken  from  it  on  improvised  stretchers.  She  flung  on 
her  clothes  and  ran  down  to  find  that  a  group  of 


2<5o  THE  CORTLANDTS 

wounded  pickets,  the  first  casualties  of  the  fight  in  a 
railroad  cut  not  far  from  the  seminary,  lay  in  one  of 
the  recently  cleared  lower  rooms.  There  were  no 
cots  for  them,  and  it  was  a  fortunate  man  who  had 
a  blanket  between  him  and  the  floor.  As  Ann  paused 
in  the  doorway,  her  glance  fell  on  the  back  of  a 
rough  brown  head  that  seemed  to  her  extraordinarily 
like  Hendricks'.  Her  heart  beat  quickly  as  she  stooped 
to  look.  It  was  not  he,  but  her  fancy  that  he  might 
be  there  persisted  and  she  scrutinized  each  man 
anxiously.  It  seemed  to  her  much  more  likely  that  he 
should  turn  up  here  among  the  wounded,  than  that  he 
should  have  died  on  some  other  battle-field. 

The  doctor  in  charge  of  the  hospital  had  little  use 
for  women  nurses,  and  he  detailed  Ann  to  work  very 
much  like  that  which  she  had  done  in  New  York.  In 
the  midst  of  the  excitement  of  battle  she  sat  down, 
with  her  little  professional  air  of  sufficiency,  and  took 
letters  at  the  patients'  dictation.  She  had  never  before 
seen  casualties  in  so  forlorn  a  condition  as  these, 
straight  from  battle,  with  their  uniforms  all  torn  and 
bloody,  and  with  dirt  ground  into  their  wounds.  The 
numbers  alarmed  her,  too,  yet  more  men  were  being 
brought  in  continually;  it  seemed  to  her  impossible  to 
win,  when  suffering  such  losses,  and  she  became  hor- 
ribly depressed.  At  nine  o'clock  a  report  reached  the 
hospital  that  General  Reynolds  had  arrived  in  Gettys- 
burg in  advance  of  the  first  corps,  and  that  he  had 
mounted  a  fresh  horse  and  galloped  out  past  the  sem- 
inary to  the  front.  Some  soldiers  reported  they  had 


GETTYSBURG  261 

seen  him,  surrounded  by  a  half-dozen  aides.  The  hos- 
pital corps  felt  the  stimulus  of  this  good  news  at  once; 
even  Ann  was  certain  that  the  horrid  tide  of  wounded 
would  ebb  with  the  arrival  of  the  popular  Union 
leader.  She  had  by  this  time  stopped  writing  letters 
to  relatives  at  home,  and  was  engaged  in  cutting-  the 
uniforms  from  horribly  mangled  men;  the  regular 
nurses  were  unable  to  cope  with  the  wounded,  and 
she  was  welcome  to  do  what  she  could.  She  worked 
feverishly,  with  entire  preoccupation  in  her  task,  but 
no  matter  how  quick  she  was,  she  made  little  head- 
way, and  long  lines  of  men  lay  on  the  floors  without 
any  attention.  Some  of  them  moaned  for  water,  and 
others  screamed  horribly  from  the  pain  of  their 
wounds. 

All  around  the  seminary  the  battle  raged,  but  Ann 
had  no  time  to  wonder  where  the  victory  lay.  She 
was  not  certain  which  army  had  possession  of  the  town, 
but  she  knew  that  the  ground  in  the  front  and  about 
the  seminary  building  was  held  by  Union  troops. 
There  was  great  activity  among  them,  and  off  to  the 
right  a  constant  deafening  sound  of  artillery.  The 
nearer  guns  had  been  placed  in  a  grove;  only  the 
smoke  from  them  oozing  through  the  tree-tops,  white 
and  thin  in  the  dead  air,  betrayed  where  they  were 
placed.  The  righting  was  so  near  now  that  often  the 
wounded  came  in  without  stretchers;  they  crawled 
back  from  the  front  by  themselves,  or  were  roughly 
helped  by  a  less  seriously  hurt  companion. 

Ann  did  not  know  what  time  it  was  when  the  de- 


262  THE  CORTLANDTS 

vastating  news  came  that  General  Reynolds  had  been 
killed,  but  after  that  she  worked  grimly  on,  without 
hope  of  a  victorious  issue  from  the  fighting.  The  clay 
seemed  as  long  as  an  ordinary  week ;  she  was  conscious 
of  no  sensation  of  hunger,  and  she  forgot  all  about 
lunch,  but  when  some  one  brought  her  food  she  gulped 
it  down  and  was  miraculously  invigorated  by  it.  It 
was  stiflingly  hot  in  the  seminary  building,  adding  the 
last  touch  of  torture  to  the  sufferings  of  the  men. 

By  one  o'clock  the  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  were 
so  crowded  with  wounded  that  it  was  with  difficulty 
Ann  could  move  about  among  them,  and  by  two  the 
store  of  supplies  which  in  the  morning  had  seemed 
to  her  adequate  for  any  demand,  had  almost  dwindled 
to  nothing.  Even  water  was  so  scarce  that  she  was 
forced  to  be  niggardly  with  it;  and  at  best  it  was 
only  lukewarm  stuff  which  her  feverish  patients  scorned 
while  they  clamored  for  it.  Men  lay  for  hours  with 
their  wounds  undressed,  their  lives  ebbing  away  with 
the  seeping  blood  that  stained  their  blue  uniforms. 
At  three  o'clock  the  last  of  the  scraped  lint  was  used 
and  an  hour  later  every  sheet  and  towel  in  the  place 
had  been  torn  into  strips  to  staunch  wounds.  Across 
the  yard  to  the  south  was  a  smaller  building,  and  Ann 
decided  to  search  there  for  linen.  When  she  opened 
the  door  she  faced  a  great  gust  of  afternoon  heat. 
Her  bonnet  with  its  black  veil  lay  where  she  had  hung 
it  the  night  before,  on  a  hook  by  the  door,  so  she  put  it 
on,  as  a  protection  from  the  fierce  sun.  The  crape 


GETTYSBURG  263 

brought  Hendricks  suddenly  to  her  mind.  It  now 
seemed  to  her  highly  probable  that  he  was  dead.  The 
extraordinary  thing  was,  she  thought,  that  any  soldier 
could  live  through  any  battle.  She  paused  for  a 
moment  on  the  step ;  the  yard  below  her  was  crowded 
with  excited  violent  men,  and  off  to  the  right  she  could 
see  that  the  regiments  holding  the  grove  of  trees  had 
been  swept  back  to  the  ridge  just  in  front  of  the 
seminary.  The  reports  of  their  carbines  came  very 
loud.  She  plunged  down  into  the  whirlpool  below  her 
and  was  flung  back  and  forth,  impotently.  There  was 
much  incoherent  shouting,  and  suddenly,  while  she 
looked,  a  band  of  men  in  blue  uniforms  swept  over  the 
crest  of  the  hill,  almost  upon  her.  Close  on  their  heels 
were  men  in  gray.  The  Union  leader  held  a  flag 
high  over  his  head;  the  clear  red  and  white  colors 
caught  the  sun  beautifully.  The  men  were  in  a  panic 
of  retreat.  As  she  looked  one  of  them  paused,  brought 
his  rifle  to  his  shoulder  and  sent  a  shot  back  in  the 
direction  from  which  he  had  come,  but  having  done  so, 
he  hurried  on  after  his  fellows.  They  bore  down  on 
Ann  with  an  irresistible  force,  and  she  found  herself 
carried  along  with  them  until  they  all  brought  up 
against  the  seminary  fence  on  the  other  side  of  the 
knoll.  There  they  paused  for  a  moment,  breathing 
hard,  and  Ann  demanded  spiritedly  to  be  allowed  to 
go  back  to  the  hospital.  A  clamor  of  opposition  arose 
at  the  suggestion,  and  a  young  lieutenant  appeared  out 
of  the  confusion. 


264  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"You  can't  go  back,"  he  said  briefly.  "The  enemy 
will  have  this  hill  inside  half  an  hour.  You  must 
come  along  with  us." 

It  was  in  vain  the  girl  pleaded  her  duties :  the  officer 
was  firm  in  his  decision  that  she  should  not  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy.  Two  soldiers  lifted  her  over 
the  crisscross  log  fence,  and,  once  on  the  other  side, 
the  spirit  of  flight  took  possession  of  her,  too,  and  she 
hurried  breathlessly  along  with  her  rescuers.  They 
were,  she  supposed,  going  back  to  the  town,  but  as 
she  came  down  from  the  hill  where  the  seminary 
stood,  she  found  that  she  had  lost  her  sense  of  direc- 
tion; she  could  not  tell  where  she  was  going;  she 
could  only  follow  blindly.  She  was  in  a  world  of 
horrible  confusion.  ...  A  sudden  pandemonium 
of  noise  burst  about  her.  .  .  .  Stunning  reports 
that  made  her  ears  ring  came  too  quickly  upon  one 
another  to  distinguish  the  separate  detonations,  and 
from  a  near-by  knoll  a  rapid  series  of  white  puffs  rose 
gallantly  against  the  shimmering  blue  of  the  mid-sum- 
mer sky.  .  .  .  About  her  now  the  ground  was 
strewn  untidily  with  haversacks,  scraps  of  paper,  can- 
teens, cartridge  boxes,  and  here  and  there  portions  of 
loaves  of  bread.  ...  It  was  like  a  ghastly,  de- 
serted, picnic  ground,  except  for  heaps  of  huddled 
figures,  some  of  which  stirred,  impotently. 

They  bore  on  toward  the  town,  although  no  one 
seemed  to  know  why.  Rumors  that  the  enemy  already 
held  it  shook  the  retreating  troops.  They  were  able 
to  make  an  entrance,  however,  and  Ann  found  the 


GETTYSBURG  265 

commonplace,  homely  streets  inexpressibly  heartening. 
She  thought  that  she  would  try  to  find  her  friend  of 
the  night  before,  but  she  was  too  tired  and  too  con- 
fused to  be  coherent  about  it,  and  she  allowed  herself 
to  be  swept  along  with  the  group  of  men  who  had 
taken  charge  of  her  since  she  left  the  seminary.  Unex- 
pectedly, at  an  angle  in  the  village  street,  they  came 
upon  trouble.  A  band  of  Union  men  were  lined  up 
across  the  pavement,  their  carbines  at  their  shoulders. 
They  were  arrestingly  menacing,  so  Ann  shrank  into 
a  convenient  doorway  to  watch  them,  just  as  the  shat- 
tering crash  of  their  first  volley  awoke  the  echoes 
along  the  house-fronts,  and  rattled  the  glass  panes  in 
the  windows  behind  her.  All  at  once  she  found  herself 
alone,  and  suddenly  she  became  terrified.  She  tried 
to  open  the  door  against  which  she  cowered,  but  it 
was  locked;  she  beat  upon  it  fruitlessly,  but  no  one 
paid  any  attention  to  her.  Her  clenched  fists  were 
bruised,  but  she  continued  to  pound  .the  solid  panel. 
Obedient  to  an  order  the  men  before  her  knelt,  their 
carbines  at  their  shoulders.  At  the  ring  of  the  officer's 
voice,  Ann  swung  around;  above  the  men  towered  a 
commanding  figure;  she  looked,  and  swept  her  fingers 
over  her  eyes,  and  looked  again.  Fear  dropped  away 
before  her  incredulity.  She  could  not  believe  her 
eyes,  but  it  was  Hendricks,  there  was  no  doubt  about 
it,  and  she  laughed  aloud  in  crazy  relief.  As  she 
plunged  toward  him  she  could  hear  his  voice  braying 
out  an  infuriated  command.  He  turned  as  she  came, 
and  fell  back  in  stupefied  amazement.  It  seemed  to 


266  THE  CORTLANDTS 

her  a  long  moment  before  recognition  came  into  his 
dum founded  face. 

"Ann!"  he  gasped  at  length.     "Good  God— Ann!" 

As  for  Ann, — foolish  tears  were  pouring  down  her 
cheeks,  and  she  could  only  nod,  with  a  forced  and 
trembling  smile. 

Hendricks  shifted  his  revolver  to  his  left  hand,  and 
shook  her  violently  with  his  right.  "What  in  hell 
are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  demanded  urgently. 

His  hand  on  her  arm  hurt,  and  Ann  gulped  down 
her  tears,  and  pulled  back.  "Oh,  Hendricks,  you  aren't 
dead,  after  all  1"  she  said  incoherently. 

He  towered  above  her  in  furious  question.  "What 
are  you  doing  here?"  he  repeated,  as  he  turned  to 
shake  a  clenched  fist  in  the  direction  of  the  invisible 
enemy.  "What  in  God's  name  are  you  here  for  ?" 

"You  are  not  dead!"  Ann  repeated  stupidly,  and 
added,  with  a  flash  of  joyous  self-revelation,  "I'm 
glad !"  Self-respect  came  back  to  her,  and  clothed  her 
gloriously. 

"You  can't  stay  here,"  Hendricks  was  shouting. 
He  whirled  her  back  under  her  portico.  "It's  no 
place  for  a  young  lady, — can't  you  see  that?  Why 
didn't  you  stay  in  New  York?  Why  don't  you  stay 
with  the  Sanitary  Commission?  Why  do  you  have  to 
follow  me?"  His  voice  rose  and  broke  in  a  childish 
crescendo  of  rage.  "What'll  I  do  with  you  now,  in 
God's  name,  with  the  Rebs  taking  the  town  ?" 

"I'm  all  right,"  Ann  protested  unconvincingly,  "now 
that  I've  seen  you." 


GETTYSBURG  267 

"All  right?"  he  echoed.  He  took  off  his  cap  and 
flung  it  violently  on  the  ground.  "You've  got  to  get 
away !  You've  got  to  make  the  Baltimore  Pike,  where 
our  people  are  coming  up.  I  can't  go  with  you!  I 
can't  leave  here!"  He  turned  his  attention  momen- 
tarily to  his  command,  and  roared  a  direction  to  the 
men  to  fire  "Lower!  Lower!"  Ann  looked  at  him 
attentively;  his  face  had  hardened  into  sterner  lines, 
and  his  nlbuth  was  firm  set.  She  was  extraordinarily 
proud  of  him ;  looking  at  him,  she  was  animated  by  a 
sensation  of  the  sweetest  affection, — the  most  soft 
sisterliness.  He  seized  the  thick  hair  on  his  forehead 
and  pulled  it  violently.  « 

Some  one  came  up  to  them,  in  the  momentary  isola- 
tion of  their  interview,  and  Ann  turned  to  see  a  slim 
young  man,  whose  trim  figure,  in  the  midst  of  the 
battle  grime,  gave  her  a  swift  impression  of  elegance. 
He  saluted  Hendricks,  and  said,  "Is  there  anything  I 
can  do?  Your  wife, — it  would  give  me  pleasure  to 
conduct  her  to  the  rear."  His  English  was  tinged 
with  a  faint  alien  accent,  Ann  thought,  and  the  vivacity 
of  his  brown  eyes  caught  her  attention  even  in  that 
crowded  moment. 

"Well,  take  her,  then,"  Hendricks  answered  un- 
graciously. "Some  one  must  look  after  her !  Find  our 
army, — Baltimore  Pike. — She  can  go  through  to  the 
rear.  Go  on,  Ann. — In  God's  name  don't  stand  there ! 
Go  on !" 

As  she  moved  uncertainly  forward,  he  leaped  to- 
ward his  command  and  demanded  of  them  whether 


268  THE  CORTLANDTS 

they  were  out  bird-shooting.  If  that  was  why  they 
were  aiming  so  high? 

The  stranger  put  out  his  hand,  and  pulled  Ann 
toward  him.  "Pardon,"  he  murmured  with  amazing 
conventionality.  "It  is  well  to  make  haste."  He  pushed 
his  arm  through  hers,  and  hurried  her  back  down  the 
street,  empty,  under  the  enemy's  fire.  Now  and  then 
a  shattered  pane  of  glass  fell  with  a  silver  tinkle  like 
a  shaken  bell,  curiously  distinct  through  the  heavier 
crash  of  musketry.  As  they  ran,  Hendricks  came 
plunging  after  them. 

"Ann!"  he  shouted.  "Ann,  who  are  you  wearing 
that  mourning  for  ?  Uncle  ?" 

"No,"  Ann  called  back.  "For  you !"  And  her  last 
glimpse  of  him  showed  him  bursting  from  a  haze  of 
bewilderment  back  into  action. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

OVER  NIGHT 

AFTERWARD  Ann  could  not  have  said  how  they 
found  their  way  out  of  the  panic-stricken  town  of 
Gettysburg.  She  had  only  confused  memories  of  be- 
ing pulled  out  of  the  road  while  groups  of  soldiers 
charged  past,  of  lurking  under  protecting  porticos,  of 
dodging  around  houses,  and  in  and  out  of  back  yards. 
Once  they  almost  tumbled  over  a  pile  of  men  lying 
dead  at  a  corner,  and  after  that  the  girl  concentrated 
her  attention  on  searching  the  ground  before  her,  lest 
she  should  stumble  on  some  dying  soldier;  she  could 
almost  feel  the  sickly  softness  of  his  body,  as  she  fled. 
She  would  have  said  that  this  nightmare  went  on  for 
hours,  but  when  at  last  they  won  free  of  the  settlement 
the  sunlight  still  lay  in  long  tranquil  lanes  across  the 
fields,  so  she  knew  it  could  not  have  taken  a  very 
long  time,  after  all. 

"Baltimore?"  her  escort  murmured  vaguely.  "It 
is — where?" 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  where  we  go,"  Ann 
urged  him;  "just  so  we  get  away  from  this  horrible 
town." 

The  farther  fields  were  strangely  empty  and  peace- 
ful, in  the  golden  light.  Cattle  grazed  contentedly 
there,  unmindful  of  an  occasional  riderless  horse  that 
wandered  among  them,  with  a  dragging  rein.  Near  at 

269 


270  THE  CORTLANDTS 

hand  small  bands  of  men  were  running  about;  it  *vas 
hard  to  believe  them  anything  but  aimless.  Fugitives 
passed  them  in  compact  groups,  or  strung  along  singly. 
Now  and  then  two  or  three,  fleeter  than  the  rest, 
seemed,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  to  be  competing 
in  a  private  foot  race;  oblivious  and  concentrated, 
they  shot  past,  breathing  hard  in  the  blazing  late 
afternoon. 

To  avoid  them  Ann  and  her  escort  bore  to  the  left, 
and  came  upon  a  road  that  led  up  to  the  hilltops  beyond 
the  town;  Union  artillery  was  moving  along  it,  and 
the  two  fell  in  behind  one  of  the  six-mule  wagons. 
They  made  good  progress ;  in  no  time  at  all  the  village 
was  well  behind  them,  while  ahead  was  a  peaceful 
country  cemetery,  where  Union  troops  were  feverishly 
tearing  up  the  gravestones,  and  mounting  guns  upon 
commanding  positions. 

Ann's  protector  was  halted  twice,  but  he  produced 
mysterious  papers  which  cleared  their  way,  and  soon 
they  were  free  of  the  actual  battle.  A  long  straight 
road  stretched  before  them,  crowded  with  incoming 
Union  troops;  a  heavy  white  dust  rose  over  it,  and 
caught  the  mellow  sunlight.  It  was  the  Baltimore 
Pike.  Ann  paused,  unwilling,  but  firm. 

"You  must  go  back,"  she  cried,  "back  to  your  regi- 
ment f" 

"And  you?" 

"I  shall  be  all  right."  She  managed  to  smile, 
shakily. 

He  looked  at  her  with  singularly  intent  brown  eyes. 


OVER  NIGHT  271 

"I  have  no  regiment.  ...  I  am  not  even  Ameri- 
can. .  .  .  Come,  it  is  late,"  he  added  urgently. 
"We  must  find  your  Sanitary  Commission  before  the. 
night.  It  should  come  up  this  road,  from  Washing- 
ion."  They  plunged  on,  making  the  best  time  they 
might,  over  ground  deeply  cut  by  the  heavy  artillery 
wagons  and  congested  with  the  traffic  of  the  battle. 

Officers  with  little  knots  of  aides  about  them  gal- 
loped by,  in  a  frantic  hurry,  and  a  column  of  cavalry, 
carbines  across  their  saddles,  came  near  riding  them 
down.  The  men  were  flogging  their  blown  horses 
mercilessly,  and  they  called  out  questions  about  the 
day's  battle.  Ann's  protector  pulled  her  into  the  road- 
side hedge  to  allow  them  to  pass;  the  moment's  rest 
was  like  a  tonic  to  the  exhausted  girl.  After  that  the 
two  fugitives  took  to  the  fields,  and  gradually,  as  they 
walked  on,  the  firing  became  more  impersonal.  It  was 
very  bad  footing.  Ann's  skirts  caught  continually  on 
the  stubble,  and  after  a  few  minutes  of  this,  when 
stooping  to  loosen  an  entangled  fold,  she  was  con- 
scious of  feeling  alarmingly  dizzy.  In  the  fields  they 
found  other  refugees  from  the  battle.  There  were 
men  trying  to  find  a  short-cut  to  their  regiments,  men 
looking  for  food,  for  water,  or  for  a  place  in  which  to 
die.  Countless  numbers  of  wounded  had  wandered 
away  from  the  fighting,  but  Ann  no  longer  took  in  their 
sufferings,  and  once  she  drank  greedily  from  an  aban- 
doned canteen;  the  lukewarm  water  was  inexpressibly 
precious.  .  .  .  She  was  only  half-conscious  that 
her  elbow  was  being  held  in  a  close  grasp,  but  now 


272  THE  CORTLANDTS 

and  then,  when  her  companion  spoke  to  her,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  a  long  time  in  answering  him. 

When  the  world  was  filled  with  a  red  sunset  glow 
Ann's  escort  caught  the  rein  of  a  wandering  horse 
that  blundered  against  them,  and  with  an  encouraging 
word  to  the  girl,  swung  himself  into  the  big  cavalry 
saddle.  When  he  repeated  what  he  had  said,  and 
Ann  understood  that  he  wished  her  to  climb  up  behind 
him  on  the  horse  that  loomed  so  high  above  her,  she 
shook  her  head  childishly. 

"I  couldn't  do  that,"  she  said  decidedly,  and  she 
looked  longingly  at  the  ground  at  her  feet.  It  was 
covered  with  little  sharp  stones,  and  she  drooped,  dis- 
couraged. "I'd  rather  stay  here,"  she  murmured. 

Her  companion  reached  down,  and  shook  her  shoul- 
ders sharply.  "Come  up  at  once,"  he  said.  His  black 
eyes  glared  at  her  ferociously ;  he  caught  her  arm,  and 
began  pulling  her  toward  him. 

She  never  remembered  just  how  she  finally  man- 
aged to  climb  up.  She  had  an  indistinct  recollection 
of  some  confused  argument  about  it,  and  of  the  un- 
explained presence  of  a  soldier,  his  head  roughly  tied 
in  a  grimy  bandage,  who  lifted  her  from  below,  to  an 
accompaniment  of  rough  endearments,  while  her  com- 
panion dragged  at  her  from  above,  but  it  all  merged 
mistily  into  the  time  that  followed,  when  she  sat  ba^ 
anced  on  the  horse's  wide  back,  her  arms  about  a 
stranger's  neck,  and  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder 
chafed  by  his  rough  uniform.  .  .  .  She  gathered 
that  they  were  lost,  but  it  did  not  seem  important. 


OVER  NIGHT  273 

.  .  .  With  the  angry  red  sunset,  the  firing  reluct- 
antly ceased,  but  for  a  time  the  twilight  was  hideously 
peopled  with  voices ;  it  was  not  until  they  had  for  some 
time  traveled  up  a  dark  black  lane,  that  they  left  every- 
thing behind  them.  Ann  had  fallen  asleep,  her  head 
on  the  foreigner's  shoulder,  and  he  had  turned  in  the 
saddle  to  slip  one  arm  about  her  yielding  body,  when 
the  horse  stumbled  heavily  over  some  trifling  obstacle 
and  he  lurched  unsteadily. 

Ann  roused  herself  unwillingly.     "Where  are  we?" 
The   stranger  shrugged,   in  the  darkness.      "Who 
knows?  The  question  is, — are  you  exhausted?" 

Ann  did  not  answer,  but  it  was,  indubitably,  the 
question ;  she  was  almost  at  the  end  of  her  strength. 

A  little  farther  on  they  came  to  a  clearing  on  the 
roadside,  where  the  darkness  was  less  enveloping.  The 
horse  stopped,  wistfully,  and  stretching  out  his  nose, 
he  neighed.  A  startlingly  quick  answer  came  from 
the  gloom;  there  was  a  burst  of  raucous  barking,  and 
the  sound  of  a  chain  resisting  the  rushes  of  a  dog. 
"It  must  be  that  there  is  a  house.  Shall  we  see?" 
Ann  slipped  down;  she  was  so  stiff  that  for  a 
moment  she  could  scarcely  stand,  and  she  clung  to  the 
stirrup  leather  helplessly.  She  wanted  to  go  with  her 
protector  when  he  left  her  to  explore,  for  she  was  more 
afraid  of  the  dark  than  she  had  been  of  the  Confeder- 
ate guns ;  while  she  waited  she  had  hard  work  to  fight 
down  her  nervous  terrors,  and  when  her  friend  came 
groping  back  through  the  gloom,  and  touched  her 
unexpectedly  with  his  outstretched  hand,  it  was  with 


274  THE  CORTLANDTS 

difficulty  that  she  stifled  an  impulse  to  scream.  In- 
stead, she  seized  his  arm  and  held  to  it  convulsively. 

"It  is  all  very  well,"  he  was  saying  reassuringly. 
"It  is  a  house,  and  a  fire  that  we  may  yet  save, — but 
— the  people  have  left.  It  must  be  because  of  the  bat- 
tle." He  looked  at  her  with  great  gravity,  "Will  you 
come  ?" 

"Come?"  echoed  Ann,  bewildered.  There  seemed 
to  be  nothing  else  for  her  to  do,  but  she  hung  back, 
with  a  flashing  thought  of  her  guardian.  "You  mean 
— stay  there,  with  you?" 

"We  have  no  choice.  We  are  lost,  you  know, 
and  in  this  darkness  it  is  impossible  to  find  the  road. 
I  know  not  but  we  may  ride  into  the  Rebel  lines." 

"But, — is  there  nothing  else  to  do  ?" 

"What?    I  ask  you." 

"I  can't  think  of  anything!"  she  said  miserably. 
"And  I  am  monstrously  tired !" 

The  house  was  very  small  and  mean,  but  there  was 
a  dwindling  fire,  and  a  pile  of  kindling  beside  it;  in 
a  moment  a  blaze  sprang  up,  and  filled  the  room  with 
dancing  light.  .  .  .  The  young  officer  brought 
bedding  from  an  inner  room,  and,  arranging  it  at  a 
comfortable  distance  from  the  fire,  he  insisted  upon 
seating  Ann  ceremoniously  before  he  went  to  unsaddle 
the  horse.  She  sat  upright  on  the  soft  heap  for  a  mo- 
ment, her  body  slim  and  straight  as  a  pipe  stem  above 
the  great  mound  of  her  skirt,  but  she  felt  deliciously 
drowsy,  and  the  pile  of  rough  blankets  was  very  com- 
fortable. She  told  herself  primly  that  it  would  not  do 


OVER  NIGHT  275 

to  doze,  but  her  escort  did  not  return.  ...  It 
seemed  a  long  time.  ...  In  a  vague  distance  she 
could  hear  him  speaking  comforting  words  to  the  agi- 
tated dog.  .  .  .  She  slipped  down  lazily  upon  the 
blankets,  murmuring  that  she  must  keep  awake,  then 
roused  herself  for  a  moment,  and  wondered  about  her 
hoops, — i  f  they  were,  perhaps,  showing  too  much  white 
stocking, — and  she  pushed  them  down  pettishly  before 
she  slumped  over  again,  helpless  with  sleep.  .  .  . 
She  was  indefinitely  aware  of  her  companion's  re- 
turn, and  of  his  arranging  something  to  shield  her  from 
the  heat  of  the  fire. 

She  awoke  reluctantly  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 
She  was  stiff  from  her  exertions  of  the  day  before, 
and  stupid  from  deep  sleep;  she  stretched  her  sinuous 
body  luxuriously  and  smiled  at  the  antics  of  her  hoops. 
Her  first  definite  consciousness  was  the  sound  of  rain 
on  the  roof ;  as  she  lay  listening  to  it  the  strangeness 
of  her  surroundings  suddenly  came  home  to  her,  and 
she  sat  up,  startled  into  complete  wakefulness.  For 
a  moment  she  thought  that  she  was  alone  in  the  strange 
place,  and  the  glance  she  flung  abroad  had  panic  in  it, 
but  as  she  met  the  steady  gaze  of  her  companion  of  the 
night  before,  from  his  place  across  the  room,  she 
smiled,  like  a  reassured  child.  His  dark  face  was  hag- 
gard, and  dramatically  intent  upon  her ;  something  de- 
fenseless in  its  emotional  betrayal  touched  the  girl  un- 
expectedly. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  only  continued  to  look  at  her, 
so  she  said  nervously,  "Good  morning."  Then,  wishing 


276  THE  CORTLANDTS 

to  break  the  tension  of  that  unquieting  gaze,  she 
glanced  beyond  him  through  the  window,  where  the 
green  hills  loomed  distinctly  through  the  woolly 
brown  of  the  rain.  "It  is  morning,  isn't  it?"  she  in- 
quired. "Have  we  been  here — all  night?"  She 
flushed  with  her  question,  hotly. 

The  man  got  stiffly  to  his  feet  "Yes,"  he  said.  "It 
is  the  first  dawn." 

She  glanced  about  her  in  the  murk  of  the  stormy 
new  day,  and  shivered,  for  the  tiny  room  was  as  dreary 
as  her  awakening  realization  of  their  predicament.  "I 
wonder  where  we  are." 

He  smiled,  under  the  dashing  line  of  his  black 
mustache,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "We  are  out  of 
the  world, — you  and  I." 

Ann's  eyes  widened.  "Like  babes  in  the  woods,*'' 
she  agreed.  "Only  there  are  no  robins.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  suppose  it  couldn't  have  been  helped.  .  .  . 
I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  to  eat?" 

"I  have  heard  chickens.  It  is  possible  there  are 
eggs." 

"Eggs !"  echoed  Ann  rapturously.  "Do  go  and  look 
for  them !" 

She  seized  the  opportunity  of  his  absence  to  re- 
arrange her  tumbled  hair,  and  to  wash  her  face  and 
hands  at  a  pump  in  the  yard.  She  was  greatly  cheered 
after  these  simple  rites,  and  more  ready  to  face  her 
decidedly  unconventional  situation.  She  hoped,  nerv- 
ously, that  the  foreign  officer  would  not  think  it  was 
her  habit  to  stay  out  over  night  with  strange  gentle- 


OVER  NIGHT  277 

men.  When  he  came  back  she  was  miraculously 
freshened, — such  being  the  recuperative  power  of 
nineteen. 

He  had  found  eight  eggs,  and  a  forgotten  pail  half 
filled  with  berries,  and  Ann  discovered  the  remains  of 
a  hoe  cake ;  it  was  not  a  bad  breakfast,  and  they  ate  it 
to  the  increasing  accompaniment  of  the  artillery'a 
thunder,  comfortably  distant,  and,  after  the  preceding 
day's  experiences,  not  particularly  menacing. 

As  she  regretfully  finished  her  last  egg,  Ann  said, 
"Do  you  know  that  I  don't  even  know  your  name? 
And  yet — !"  She  broke  off  with  a  smiling  glance 
about  her. 

"My  name  is  Guido,"  he  answered,  "Guido  Avez- 
zana." 

"Are  you  an  Italian  ?"  Ann  asked  eagerly.  She  had 
never  met  an  Italian  gentleman  before,  and  with  the 
gleam  of  'his  smiling  assent,  her  mind  flashed  unex- 
pectedly to  Densley  Howard.  This  was,  indubitably, 
a  part  of  what  he  had  wanted  for  her, — acquaintance 
with  romantic-looking  foreigners. 

"I  am  Piedmontese.  ...  I  am  in  your  country 
as  military  observer  for  my  king, — for  Victor  Em- 
manuel." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Ann  before  that  it  was  a 
romantic  thing  to  serve  a  king,  but  she  liked  the  way 
in  which  he  announced  his  allegiance,  and  her  beaming 
eyes  betrayed  her.  Avezzana  leaned  toward  her  as  he 
talked,  interest  in  his  own. 

What  they  said  was  unimportant.    She  told  him  that 


278  THE  CORTLANDTS 

she  had  never  been  in  Italy, — no,  nor  in  Europe,  al- 
though she  spoke  French  rather  well,  really,  and  she 
reluctantly  admitted  that  she  knew  no  Italian.  It  was 
a  beautiful  language,  she  commented,  and  he  replied 
with  a  burst  of  liquid  syllables,  that,  translated,  made 
Ann  stiffen  self-consciously.  She  told  herself,  sensibly, 
that  to  say  a  language  was  not  so  beautiful  as  she  was 
too  absurd  a  statement  to  notice,  but  her  careless  laugh 
was  a  trifle  delayed.  Avezzana  did  not  laugh,  but  he 
smiled  subtly,  and  his  eyes  remained  intent.  Under 
their  regard,  Ann  became  at  length,  in  spite  of  herself, 
uneasily  silent. 

Even  a  half  pail  of  berries  topping  off  four  eggs 
each,  will  not  last  two  healthy  young  people  forever, 
and  as  the  last  delicious  morsel  vanished,  Avezzana, 
who  had  not  failed  to  take  in  Ann's  morning  freshness, 
said  suddenly,  "Is  it,  then,  that  you  love  him  so  much  ?" 

In  her  amazement  Ann  dropped  the  pail ;  it  clattered 
on  the  bare  floor  with  an  entirely  disproportionate 
amount  of  noise.  "Love  whom?"  she  demanded, 
honestly  puzzled. 

"Your  captain." 

"Hendricks  ?"  Her  white  teeth  showed  in  a  reminis- 
cent little  grin ;  it  amused  her  to  have  the  old  question 
so  squarely  put. 

"You  come  through  danger  to  see  him." 

"Yes, — that's  true."  She  smiled  wickedly  at  his 
confusion. 

The  young  Italian  regarded  her  with  eyes  that  were 
almost  tragically  intense ;  it  was  evident  that  he  found 


OVER  NIGHT  279 

the  situation  too  much  for  him.  "Why  did  you 
come  ?"  he  asked,  and  his  voice  took  a  deeper  note. 

She  became  somewhat  nervous  under  his  increasing 
solemnity.  "I  came  because  we  all  thought  he  was 
dead,"  she  explained,  "and  then  I  heard  he  wasn't, — 
but  I  had  to  be  sure." 

"You  wondered,  possibly,  if  you  were — free?" 

She  nodded  her  bright  head.    "Exactly." 

Avezzana  leaned  nearer,  across  the  table.  His  man- 
ner was  somehow  changed ;  he  was  not  less  deferential, 
but  he  was,  in  a  subtle  fashion,  more  intimate,  and 
without  taking  time  for  thought,  Ann  pushed  her  chair 
back,  instinctively. 

"\Ve  must  be  getting  started,"  she  announced. 

Her  companion  continued  to  look  at  her;  specula- 
tion had  leaped  into  his  black  eyes.  "Do  not  make 
haste,"  he  urged.  "It  is  a  pity  to  leave  this, — our  lit- 
tle house."  His  voice  caressed  the  place,  and  he  held 
Ann's  eyes  with  his.  Suddenly  he  stretched  out  his 
hand,  and  touched  her  slim  wrist  where  it  showed, 
white,  below  her  black  sleeve. 

Regardless  of  the  tension  she  sensed  in  the  close 
room,  Ann  laughed,  and  at  the  clear  sound  he  drew 
his  hand  away  so  quickly  that  she  thought  the  touch 
had,  after  all,  been  accidental.  "It  isn't  much  to  boast 
of, — our  little  house,"  she  commented  lightly.  "Al- 
though it  did  keep  us  from  the  rains." 

Avezzana  frowned.  "You  will  admit,  madame,  that 
I  have  been  well  behaved  here." 

Remembrance  of  his  kindness  of  the  day  before 


28o  THE  CORTLANDTS 

swept  over  Ann.  "You  are  so  good!"  she  cried  re- 
morsefully. "And  I  am  such  a  bother !" 

"When  you  are  gone,  I  fear  what  you  call  my  good- 
ness may  be  a  thing  I  shall  regret." 

The  girl  looked  the  interrogation  she  lacked  the 
courage  to  voice,  and  he  continued.  "It  is  because  you 
are  so  beautiful." 

"You  mustn't  say  that  to  me." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well, — it's  ridiculous,  for  one  thing." 

Avezzana  continued  to  look  at  her  closely.  "I 
thought  possibly — because  of — your  husband." 

"My — husband  ?"  Ann's  tone  vibrated  with  amaze- 
ment, and  suddenly  her  eyes  widened,  and  a  light 
danced  in  them,  as  the  delicious  realization  came  to  her 
that  the  young  Italian  thought  her  a  married  woman. 
"You  mean  Hendricks?"  she  said  demurely.  "I  sup- 
pose perhaps  he  wouldn't  like  it." 

"And  do  you  never  do  anything  of  which  he  dis- 
approves ?" 

"I  never  do  anything  else!" 

"Then — why  not  be  kind  to  me  ?" 

"But  I  am  kind,  am  I  not?    I  want  to  be." 

He  may  have  thought  her  wistfulness  provocative, 
and  probably  he  did  not  realize  that,  in  the  simplicity  of 
the  puritan  'sixties,  even  had  she  been  the  experienced 
matron  he  took  her  for,  she  would  in  all  probability 
have  been  honestly  amazed  by  his  advances.  He  seized 
her  hand,  and  bent  over  it,  across  the  little  table. 
"You  are  adorable!"  he  cried,  his  restraint  released. 


OVER  NIGHT  28r 

He  was  unprepared  for  the  strength  with  which  she 
wrenched  herself  free,  although  he  made  no  effort  to 
hold  her.  "Please  don't,"  she  whispered  feebly.  She 
was  trembling  all  over,  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
speak. 

"If  you  do  not  wish  it, — no !"  he  said,  instantly  com- 
pliant, "but  you  are  like  nothing  I  have  seen  before. 
How  is  it  possible  that  I  should  not  love  you?" 

Obeying  an  instinct  to  escape,  Ann  swiftly  opened 
the  door  and  stood  in  the  frame,  a  black  silhouette 
against  the  luminous  gray.  She  swung  toward  him 
In  crisp  indignation.  "But  you  think  I  am  married! 
— How  can  you  talk  to  me  about  love?"  A  black  gulf 
yawned  before  her,  and  she  shrank  back  from  it  in 
bewildered  fright.  In  the  flurry  of  her  panic  she  re- 
treated through  the  open  door,  and  stepped 
unexpectedly  out  into  the  rain.  She  looked  back  at 
Avezzana  with  entreating  eyes.  "Please,"  she  begged 
piteously,  "won't  you  get  the  horse?" 

The  Italian  did  not  hesitate;  for,  according  to  his 
code,  the  moment  had  come  when  pursuit  was  no 
longer  possible.  He  only  gave  her  a  stricken  look  as 
he  passed  her,  just  outside  the  door.  .  .  .  When 
he  was  gone,  Ann  stood  where  she  was,  regardless 
of  the  fine  drizzle  from  which  the  overhanging  eaves 
inadequately  protected  her;  she  was  entirely  preoc- 
cupied with  the  tumult  of  her  sensations.  Avezzana, 
she  knew,  was  somehow  dangerous,  but  she  did  not 
determine  whether  this  recognition  came  from  her 
actual  experience  with  him,  or  merely  from  the  fact 


282  THE  CORTLANDTS 

that  he  was  strangely  disquieting.  She  was  only  sure 
that  her  breath  caught  unevenly  in  her  throat,  as  she 
had  never  known  it  to  do  before. 

He  returned  much  more  quickly  than  she  had  ex- 
pected ;  he  came  running  across  the  little  yard  that  lay 
between  the  shed  and  the  house,  and  Ann  knew  at 
once  that  something  had  happened.  "Your  people  are 
just  here,"  he  called, — "at  the  next  house.  I  see  them 
across  the  fields, — men  and  women.  There  is  a  wagon, 
too,  with  *U.  S.  San.  Com.'  painted  on  it." 

Relief  flashed  radiantly  across  Ann's  face.  "Let 
us  go  quickly,  and  see." 

Avezzana  came  up  to  her.  "You  must  go  alone," 
he  said.  "You  need  never  say  that  I  was  with  you,— 
since  yesterday.  ...  I  must  take  the  horse,  and 
leave  you  at  once." 

"You  are  going  back  to  the  battle?" 

Avezzana  held  out  his  hand  and  nodded.  "Good- 
by,"  he  said,  smiling  with  somber  eyes. 

The  girl  put  her  hand  in  his,  trustfully  enough  now 
that  there  was  familiar  companionship  only  a  field 
iway.  "I  can't  thank  you,"  she  murmured. 

The  young  man  said  nothing  at  all,  but  he  looked 
at  her  with  tragic  eyes,  which  somehow  made  her 
think  of  an  actor's,  and  after  a  moment  he  kissed  the 
hand  he  held,  swiftly  and  not  too  impersonally.  Ann 
continued  to  stand  looking  after  him,  while  he  lead 
the  horse  from  the  shed,  and,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand 
to  her,  mounted,  after  the  Italian  method, — a  spirited 
leap  from  the  ground  to  the  saddle.  The  horse  reared 


OVER  NIGHT  283 

protestingly,  while  Avezzana  reined  him  in,  and  spoke 
encouragingly  to  him;  he  was  very  beautiful  in  his 
triumphant  mastery.  He  was  almost  at  the  gate, 
when  Ann  sprang  after  him. 

"Wait,"  she  called    "Please  wait !" 

He  turned  the  plunging  horse  toward  her,  but  she 
could  see  that  he  was  anxious  to  be  gone.  "What 
is  it  that  you  wish?"  he  asked.  His  impatience  was 
tender,  but  evident. 

She  ran  lightly  over  to  him,  and  came  as  near  to  the 
fidgeting  horse  as  she  might.  "There  is  something  I 
must  tell  you,"  she  said  urgently.  "I  am  not  married 
to  Hendricks !" 

Avezzana's  face  gleamed  down  on  her,  frozen  with 
astonishment.  "To  whom,  then  ?" 

"To  no  one.  I  am — just  a  girl.  I  wanted  you  to 
know." 

From  the  house  down  the  lane  there  came  a  friendly 
hail,  and  the  young  Italian  started  "It  is,  then,  all  the 
more  reason  why  I  should  not  be  found  here,"  he 
said,  true  to  his  code.  "But — a  rivederci,  Signorina" 

In  a  moment  he  had  disappeared  around  the  bend 
in  the  little  lane,  where  the  insistent  guns  were  calling. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

EN  ROUTE 

WHEN  the  battle  was  over,  the  Sanitary  Commission 
unit  which  Ann  joined  moved  into  the  town  of 
Gettysburg,  and  with  great  difficulty  the  girl  managed 
to  get  a  message  through  to  New  York  announcing 
Hendricks'  well-being.  The  result  was  as  she  had 
feared,  a  bombardment  of  telegrams  from  Mrs.  Cort- 
landt  clamoring  for  her  immediate  return,  but  as  there 
were  not  nearly  enough  nurses  at  the  front,  and  as  at 
last  she  was  where  she  had  for  so  long  wanted  to  be, 
Ann  ignored  the  summons.  The  wounded  crowded  the 
churches,  as  well  as  every  house  in  the  town;  they 
lay  on  boards  stretched  over  the  pews,  without  com- 
forts or  adequate  nursing.  Ann  thought  she  had,  in 
the  past  two  years,  learned  all  about  the  misery  of  the 
wounded  soldier,  but  she  had  known  nothing  like  the 
suffering  she  found  here.  Thousands  on  thousands  of 
young  men,  many  of  them  boys  no  older  than  she,  lay 
shattered;  yet  every  day  the  invalid  population  of  the 
gruesome  town  increased,  as  ambulances  brought 
always  more  men  back  from  the  battle-field,  and  every 
day  they  died  by  hundreds.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
Ann  disregarded  Mrs.  Cortlandt's  messages. 

She  was  put  to  work  in  an  operating-room;  some- 
times she  mopped  the  floor,  where  blood  spread  like  a 
crimson  lake,  and  sometimes  she  forced  stimulants  be- 

284 


EN  ROUTE  285 

tween  white  and  icy  lips,  endeavoring  to  snatch  men 
back  to  life  when  they  were  already  in  the  grasp  of 
death  himself.  When  she  came  in  or  went  out  she 
passed,  by  the  door,  a  great  heap  of  severed  arms  and 
legs,  white,  stark  and  terrible.  She  worked  all  day  and 
far  into  the  night,  and  she  was  so  tired  that  her  sen- 
sibilities were  mercifully  dulled.  Her  feet  ached,  her 
back  ached,  her  eyes  ached,  her  very  soul  ached,  as  she 
beheld  the  courage  of  her  suffering  soldiers.  She  won- 
dered that  they  could  want  to  live  when  in  such  su- 
preme pain;  she  felt  that  those  who  did  must  be  re- 
served for  some  splendid  fate. 

Days  ran  on,  and  Ann  worked  until  she  could 
scarcely  stand ;  great  circles  drew  themselves  under  her 
eyes;  her  only  gown  was  bedraggled  and  always  wet, 
and  her  hands  became  rough  and  sore,  yet  she  was 
magnificently  content.  Never  in  all  her  life  before  had 
she  been  so  sure  that  she  was  doing  the  right  thing, 
and  she  was  determined  to  stay  until  the  crisis  was 
over.  Unfortunately,  however,  Mrs.  Cortlandt  knew  a 
colonel,  and  she  was  not  a  woman  to  let  privilege  lie 
idle ;  a  week  after  the  battle  ended  the  girl  was  officially 
ordered  home.  The  kind  old  man  was  quite  firm  when 
she  pleaded  with  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
a  pleasing  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

The  blow  was  somewhat  softened  by  the  fact  that 
the  Sanitary  Commission  was  sending  trains  of 
wounded  to  the  North  as  fast  as  the  railroad  could 
handle  them,  and  Ann  was  detailed  as  a  nurse  in 
transit,  in  charge  of  a  car.  She  was  so  busy  getting 


286  THE  CORTLANDTS 

her  patients  on  board,  hobbling  about  on  aching  feet, 
in  an  endeavor  to  make  them  comfortable,  that  she 
left  Gettysburg  without  so  much  as  a  final  glance  down 
the  street  on  which  she  had  marched  to  adventure. 
Her  patients  were  all  convalescent,  and  by  the  time 
the  train  started  they  were  quite  happily  established  on 
their  cots,  in  high  anticipation  of  getting  home. 

As  the  train  swung  around  the  curve,  with  a  great 
slatting  and  jolting  of  loose  link  couplings,  Ann 
glanced  idly  back  at  the  village,  and,  for  the  first  time 
in  days,  remembered  the  romantic  Italian  who  had 
taken  charge  of  her  in  the  midst  of  the  battle.  In  the 
absorption  of  her  work  in  the  hospital,  she  had  entirely 
forgotten  him,  but  now  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  no* 
seen  him  again.  She  felt  very  grateful  to  him,  now  she 
came  to  think  about  it,  and  as  she  recalled  his  gal- 
lantries she  smiled  condoningly. 

They  had  gone  perhaps  fifteen  miles  on  their  way, 
when  the  door  at  the  forward  end  of  the  car  opened, 
and  a  group  of  officers,  headed  by  a  colonel,  came  in. 
It  was  a  tour  of  inspection,  Ann  thought,  and  she 
looked  nervously  over  her  car  to  see  that  everything 
was  in  order.  She  could  hear  the  colonel's  voice  above 
the  rattle  of  the  train,  as  he  explained  the  govern- 
ment's system  in  transporting  its  wounded,  and  she 
looked  up,  curiously,  to  see  to  whom  he  was  giving  this 
information.  There  were  half  a  dozen  officers  in 
baggy  Federal  uniforms,  surrounding  a  slim  young 
man  in  a  braided  coat.  Something  about  his  back 
made  Ann's  breath  catch  in  her  throat;  she  had  already 


EN  ROUTE  287 

flushed  when  he  turned  and,  over  the  cots  of  the 
wounded  men,  met  her  beaming  eyes.  It  was  Avez- 
zana. 

The  girl's  inclination  was  to  run  down  the  car  to 
greet  him,  and  to  tell  every  one  how  wonderfully  kind 
he  had  been  to  her,  but  to  her  amazement  there  was 
no  returning  smile  in  his  look.  His  eyes  met  hers 
coldly  and  firmly,  and  there  was  a  prohibition  in  them. 
She  stopped  where  she  was,  and  her  flush  died  away, 
leaving  her  rather  pale.  She  did  not  look  up  again 
as  the  men  went  through  the  car,  but  she  could  hear 
the  Italian's  soft  voiced  felicitations. 

"In  my  country  we  do  nothing  so  excellent  for  our 
wounded.  It  will  greatly  interest  the  war  ministry." 

They  stood  for  a  while  gravely  discussing  hospital 
equipment,  and  whether  or  not  the  use  of  chloroform 
on  a  large  scale  was  practicable,  and  then  they  went 
away.  Avezzana  departed  without  a  single  backward 
look ;  the  only  time  his  eyes  had  met  Ann's  was  in  that 
first  icy  glance.  The  girl  was  furiously  angry  with 
him,  and  bewildered,  too.  At  the  very  moment  when  the 
door  opened  she  had  been  thinking  of  him  with  grati- 
tude, and  when  she  realized  that  it  was  he  wbo  had 
come  into  her  car,  her  heart  had  quickened  its  beat 
with  a  joyousness  she  had  not  known  for  a  long  time. 
She  could  not  imagine  why  he  should  pretend  that  he 
did  not  know  her;  as  she  thought  of  it  her  indignation 
grew,  and  at  the  same  time  she  was  enormously  cast 
down. 

It   was,    perhaps,    half   an   hour   before   the   door 


288  THE  CORTLANDTS 

opened  again,  furtively.  Her  car  was  on  the  end  of 
the  train,  and  it  was,  she  supposed,  only  a  brakeman 
coming  to  attend  to  his  work,  but  as  no  one  entered 
immediately,  she  became  suspicious.  She  thought  that 
if  it  was  Avezzana  she  would  not  speak  to  him;  a 
flame  of  anger  swept  through  her,  but  she  could  not 
take  her  eyes  from  the  narrow  crack  in  the  door, 
through  which  the  scorching  wind  rushed  devastat- 
ingly.  In  a  moment  the  young  Italian  stuck  his  head 
into  the  car  arid  startled  her  with  a  brilliant  smile. 
She  hastily  turned  her  head  away,  but  somehow  she 
was  aware  that  he  slipped  around  the  door,  and  closed 
it  behind  him  with  a  little  burlesque  of  caution.  In  no 
time  at  all  he  was  beside  her,  masculine  and  impressive, 
and  Ann  was,  after  all,  unprepared  for  him.  She  could 
see  that  the  sick  men  looked  up  eagerly,  and  one  of 
them,  catching  her  eyes,  grinned  impishly  at  her. 
She  wondered  nervously  what  Avezzana  would  say, 
but  she  was  taken  entirely  unaware  by  his  opening. 

"Nurse,  may  I  ask  you  some  questions  in  regard  to 
the  feeding  of  your  sick?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  am  afraid  not,"  she  said 
dryly. 

"But  your  colonel  said  it  was  you  I  should  ask. 
.  .  .  I  thought  if  you  would  come,  for  a  moment, 
— so  that,  of  course,  we  shall  not  disturb  your  patients, 
— to  the  back  platform?  .  .  .  We  do  not  have 
them  in  my  country, — so  quaint, — a  place  for  conversa- 
tion, is  it  not?  You  will  come?" 

"No,  thank  you."     Still  Ann  did  not  look  at  him. 


EN  ROUTE  289 

She  was  enjoying  herself;  she  felt  delightfully  cruel, 
and  at  the  same  time  unsatiated. 

Avezzana  reached  for  a  chair,  and  drew  it  close  to 
hers.  "In  that  case,"  he  said,  "I  must  ask  you  certain 
questions  here." 

"We  can  not  talk.  There  are  men  sleeping.  .  ,  . 
What  questions?"  The  afterthought  was  a  weakness, 
and  she  flushed  resentfully. 

"Many.  .  .  .  Where  shall  I  begin  ?"  He  swung 
the  chair  between  his  trim  legs,  preparatory  to  sitting 
on  it. 

Ann  looked  miserably  down  the  line  of  cots:  the 
men  were,  obviously,  waiting  happily  for  the  situa- 
tion to  develop.  She  glanced  briefly  at  Avezzana  and 
took  in  his  malicious  smile ;  she  did  not  know  what  he 
would  say,  and,  apart  from  that,  she  had  a  growing 
desire  to  say  some  things  herself.  "You  are  right," 
she  murmured,  "here  we  will  disturb  my  patients. 
.  .  .  For  just  a  moment — "  She  rose,  and  turned 
to  the  rear  door. 

Avezzana  had  it  open  for  her,  although  she  had 
made  haste,  in  order  to  avoid  accepting  even  this 
small  service.  She  stepped  out  on  the  platform,  where 
the  fierce  wind  tore  at  her  great  hollow  skirts,  and 
came  near  to  upsetting  her.  She  flung  out  her  hands 
to  seize  something  to  which  she  might  hold,  and  found 
herself  clinging  to  the  Italian,  while  the  door  slammed 
behind  them,  with  a  great  clatter  of  glass.  She  met 
his  intent  eyes,  and  tried  to  pull  herself  away,  but  could 
not,  because  her  arm  was  held  in  a  close  clasp. 


290  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Please !"  she  said  feebly,  all  her  defiance  shattered 
by  this  unexpected  happening. 

"In  one  moment,"  Avezzana  replied,  and  he  piloted 
her  across  the  perilous  open  platform  to  the  steps  at 
the  side.  "Sit  here,"  he  said  ceremoniously,  as  he 
lowered  her  down  carefully  to  the  narrow  swinging 
seat  There  the  flying  ground  seemed  very  close ;  she 
could  see  each  distinct  pebble  on  the  right-of-way.  Her 
skirts  filled  all  the  space  between  the  hand-rails,  but 
Avezzana  made  nothing  of  that;  he  swung  himself 
past  her,  so  that  she  held  her  breath  lest  he  should 
fall;  then,  unceremoniously  pushing  aside  her  crino- 
line, he  seated  himself  on  the  step  below  her.  Wedged 
into  that  tiny  place,  she  could  not  avoid  looking  into 
his  wide,  smiling,  black  eyes.  She  had  never  seen  eyes 
just  like  them ;  beneath  their  smile  they  were  curiously 
unexpressive,  as  though  they  had  no  depths.  With 
an  effort,  she  looked  away,  and  remembered  that  she 
was  offended.  She  frowned  as  she  realized,  too  late, 
that  she  had  lost  ground  in  allowing  him  to  bring  her 
out  from  the  car. 

"Can  you  not  understand?"  The  Italian's  voice 
was  beautifully  soft,  with  a  chopping  accent  that  made 
his  English  foreign. 

"What  do  you  mean — understand?" 

"You  are  angry?" 

"Of  course  I  am  angry !"  Ann's  direct  gaze  met  his, 
firmly. 

"Because  I  do  not  speak  to  you. — Is  it  not  so?" 
Ann  said  nothing,  but  she  looked  off  over  the  un  fenced 


EN  ROUTE  291 

fields  with  cold  indifference.  "You  do  not  know  why 
I  am  silent?  No?  It  is  of  a  strangeness,  your  coun- 
try !  Here  you  are,  young,  unmarried, — a  lady."  Was 
there,  Ann  wondered,  the  least  question  in  his  voice? 
"You  spend  a  night  with  me,  alone.  It  is  not  to  be 
helped,  no,  but  surely  it  is  not  to  speak  of, — for  I, 
too,  am  a  gentleman!" 

"But  what  of  it?"  Ann  burst  out.  "Why  not  talk 
about  it?  No  one  would  think  anything  of  it,"  she 
looked  him  over  magnificently,  "with  me." 

Avezzana  said  nothing  for  a  bit;  he  was  plainly 
staggered.  Finally  he  announced  firmly,  "I  could  not 
have  recognize  you,  before  those  men,  no,  not  if  I 
died  for  it.  ...  It  may  be  they,  too,  are  inno- 
cents. .  .  .  It  is  difficult  to  know,  in  your  country, 
— but  no, — I  could  not  have  spoke.  .  .  .  You 
understand?  You  forgive?" 

Ann  softened  unwillingly.  She  still  cherished  a 
slight  feeling  of  resentment,  but  she  allowed  a  memory 
of  his  care  of  her  to  overlay  it.  "I  suppose  so,"  she 
said  ungraciously,  but  she  smiled  at  him,  with  all  the 
effect  of  the  sun  coming  out  from  under  a  dark 
cloud. 

Avezzana  smiled  back,  and  all  was  well.  "There 
are  some  things  I  must  ask  you." 

"About  the  feeding  of  my  patients?"  Ann  laughed, 
and  he  joined  her  unwillingly.  He  did  not,  she  thought, 
like  to  laugh. 

"No,"  he  then  said  quite  gravely.    "About  you." 

"Well,  what  about  me?" 


292  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Many  things.  .  .  .  Why  were  you  there, — at 
the  battle?" 

"We  had  word  that  my  cousin,  Hendricks  Rennes- 
lyer,  was  dead,  and  then  we  heard  he  wasn't.  I  went 
to  make  sure." 

"Your  cousin?" 

Ann  could  feel  herself  flushing,  but  she  managed  to 
nod  carelessly. 

Then  Avezzana  said  something  that  surprised  her. 
"I  have  seen  him  since.  When  I  knew  it  was  necessary 
for  me  to  see  you  again,  I  went  to  him.  He  says  you 
are  fiance." 

"We  were, — but  we're  not, — now." 

"Then  why  risk  all,  in  this  way?  Surely,  even  in 
Jrour  country,  it  is  not  the  custom  for  a  beautiful 
young  girl  to — "  He  broke  off,  with  a  wide  gesture. 

"You  talk  just  like  my  aunts,"  she  commented. 

A  pleased  smile  broke  over  the  Italian's  face.  "Ah, 
you  have  aunts?"  There  was  plainly  relief  in  his 
tone. 

"I  should  say  I  have!    Two." 

"And  that  is  all?" 

"It's  enough,  thank  you!" 

"I  mean — no  mother?    No  father?" 

"No.  ...  I  have  an  uncle;  he  is  the  nicest 
person  in  the  world,  but  he  is  abroad.  The  president 
sent  him  to  Europe." 

Avezzana  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  extraordi- 
nary facts.  "The  president,"  he  murmured,  as  if  that 
were  the  last  touch  to  an  amazing  situation. 


EN  ROUTE  293 

"I  am  sorry  he  isn't  here.  He  would  thank  you 
for  me,"  Ann  said  prettily. 

"You  will  tell  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Extraordinaire!     And  your  aunts?" 

Ann  flushed  again.  "No, — not  my  aunts.  They 
would  be  awfully  cross  about  it." 

Avezzana's  look  of  relief  deepened  into  deference. 
"Your  aunts, — I  hope  to  know  them,"  he  murmured. 

The  train  swung  around  a  curve;  at  the  end  where 
the  two  young  people  sat  the  car  swayed  dizzily.  Avez- 
zana  clung  to  the  railing,  and  the  girl  caught  tight 
to  his  arm.  As  they  settled  back  she  became  con- 
scious of  a  slight  feeling  of  restraint.  "I  must  go," 
she  said  uneasily. 

"To  nurse?  .  .  .  But  why  a  nurse, — you,  a 
young  girl?  That  is  a  thing  I  can  not  comprehend." 

"Plenty  of  people  can't,"  she  assured  him  comfort- 
ingly, and  added  superbly,  "I  nurse  because  I  wish  to. 
.  .  .  In  a  war.  .  .  .  Don't  your  Italian 
women  do  that?" 

"Women?     Yes.     But  ladies,  never." 

"Well,  I  am  glad  I  don't  live  there,  that's  all." 

Avezzana  leaned  toward  her  eagerly.  "Do  not  turn 
your  mind  against  my  country,"  he  pleaded.  "Italia ! 
How  she  is  beautiful!" 

"Perhaps  when  the  war  is  over,  uncle  will  take  me 
there." 

"Where  do  you  write  to  your  uncle?'* 

"In  care  of  the  American  Minister,  Paris.     Why?" 


294  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Avezzana  looked  at  her  profoundly.  "Perhaps, — • 
for  no  reason,"  he  said.  Ann  felt,  uncomfortably, 
that  there  was  more  there  than  met  the  eye. 

"Now  I  really  must  go  back,"  she  said;  "suppose 
some  one  should  come  in,  and  not  find  me?" 

This  was,  to  Avezzana,  potent  reasoning.  He  rose 
at  once,  and  slipped  past  her,  up  the  steps.  She  got 
unsteadily  to  her  feet,  and  allowed  him  to  take  her 
hand  in  his.  He  held  it  very  tightly,  but  relinquished 
it  the  moment  he  had  the  door  opened.  On  the  thresh- 
old, Ann  paused,  swaying  lightly  to  the  motion  of  the 
train. 

"When  you  are  in  New  York,  will  you  come  to  see 
us?"  she  demanded. 

"I  shall  give  myself  that  honor." 

"But  you  don't  know  where  we  live." 

"Your  cousin, — he  has  give  me  the  place."  He 
pulled  a  corner  of  folded  white  paper  from  his  breast 
pocket,  in  proof. 

"Oh!  .  .  .  Well,  then,  good-by."  She  gave 
him  her  hand  again  impulsively,  and  vanished  into 
the  car.  Avezzana  stayed  where  he  was,  until  they 
came  to  the  station;  she  could  see  the  back  of  his 
sleek  black  head,  whenever  she  turned  toward  the  door, 
but  when  they  arrived  in  Harrisburg,  he  had  vanished. 

The  next  day  Ann  left  the  Sanitary  Commission 
women,  and  went  on  to  New  York.  As  she  crossed 
on  the  ferry  she  was  uncomfortably  aware  that 
probable  condemnation  awaited  her  in  Washington 
Square,  but  after  all  she  didn't  much  care.  She  felt 


EN  ROUTE  295 

singularly  light-hearted,  now  that  the  great  affair  of 
Hendricks  was  settled.  Mrs.  Cortlandt  was  waiting 
for  her  in  the  ferry-house;  she  received  the  prodigal 
without  the  slightest  indication  of  an  inclination  to 
sacrifice  a  fatted  calf, — or,  indeed,  anything,  except  the 
offender  herself.  During  all  the  years  in  which  she 
had  shocked  her,  Ann  had  never  known  such  weighty 
disapprobation.  "Well,  miss,"  was  all  she  said  in 
welcome.  She  ran  a  disapproving  eye  over  the  girl's 
disgraceful  frock.  "You  look  a  sight,"  she  added 
grimly. 

"I  know, — my  old  black  dress.  .  .  .  Isn't  it 
wonderful,  Aunt  Emily,  about  Hendricks?" 

"What  about  Hendricks?" 

"Why,— that  he  is  alive,  and  all  right?" 

"We  knew  that  long  before  your  message  came." 

"You  knew?" 

"Certainly.  The  very  day  after  you  left  we  had  3 
telegram  in  answer  to  those  we  had  been  sending." 

Ann  stood  still,  in  the  passageway.  "How  ridicu« 
lous!"  she  murmured,  and  laughed. 

"I  am  glad  you  can  laugh,  miss.  It  is  as  well  for 
you  that  your  uncle  is  away  from  home,  or  he  might 
at  last  see  things  as  they  are.  Don't  stand  here;  let 
us  get  home  while  we  may." 

Outside,  the  streets  seemed  to  Ann  to  be  strangely 
empty.  Ordinarily  little  negro  bootblacks  and  paper 
boys  stood  about  the  entrance  to  the  ferry,  and  crowds 
of  people  swarmed  in  and  out  of  the  building,  but 
to-day  scarcely  any  one  was  to  be  seen. 


296  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Where  is  everybody?"  she  asked  Mrs.   William. 

"Come,  Ann,  make  haste!  Don't  stand  there,  like 
that!  Don't  you  see  those  roughs  over  there?" 

"What  of  it?  It  can't  hurt  me  to  have  them  look 
at  me.  ...  I  am  sure  I  shouldn't  think  they 
would  want  to,  the  way  I  look." 

Mrs.  Cortland  broke  into  a  hen-like  little  run,  and 
Ann  hobbled  after  her  on  her  aching  feet.  The  car- 
riage was  waiting;  the  older  woman  bolted  into  it 
frantically,  and  turned  to  pull  Ann  after  her. 

"What  in  the  world,  Aunt  Emily?"  Ann  cried,  half 
tumbling  into  the  musty  interior.  "Why  did  you  take 
the  closed  carriage?  And  what  is  the  hurry?" 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  sank  back  on  the  cushions  with  a 
great  sigh  of  relief.  "Thank  goodness,"  she  gasped. 
"We're  safe !" 

"Safe?  Why  shouldn't  we  be?"  Ann  glanced  out 
of  the  window  at  the  still  deserted  streets;  the  only 
person  she  could  see  was  a  shopkeeper,  frantically 
putting  shutters  before  his  show  windows  in  the  same 
panic  of  haste  that  had  afflicted  Mrs.  Cortlandt.  "Is 
there  anything  the  matter?"  she  demanded. 

"Matter?  I  should  say  there  was!  Riots,  at  any 
moment !  Negroes  threatened  with  their  lives !  Every 
one  scared  to  death!  Roughs  from  the  river-front 
swarming  all  over  town!  We  shall  be  fortunate  if 
we  reach  home  with  our  lives !" 

"But  what  has  happened  ?" 

"They  have  begun  the  draft  for  the  army,  Ann. 
Yesterday  they  drew  the  first  names  from  the  wheel. 


EN  ROUTE  297 

They  never  should  have  begun  it  on  a  Saturday; — all 
day  Sunday  to  stir  up  mischief,  and  no  soldiers  quar- 
tered here!  If  I  were  a  man  I  am  sure  I  should  never 
have  allowed  such  a  thing  to  happen !" 

Ann  sat  silent,  letting  Mrs.  Cortlandt  run  on.  She 
remembered  that  her  guardian  had  thought  the  Draft 
Act  a  bad  one,  because,  for  two  hundred  dollars,  it 
allowed  a  rich  man  to  buy  his  exemption  from  right- 
ing, but  that,  she  thought,  would  not  have  caused 
rioting.  "I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  at  length. 

"It  is  those  Copperheads,"  Mrs.  Cortlandt  impa- 
,  tiently  explained.  "They  are  all  Rebels,  at  heart,  and 
they  don't  want  the  draft,  of  course;  it  means  more 
men  to  fight  on  our  side.  They  have  stirred  up  a 
great  feeling  against  the  negroes,  and  goodness  knows 
what  will  happen  to  the  poor  things!  I  wish  your 
uncle  was  at  home." 

It  all  sounded  like  an  extravaganza  to  Ann,  but  she 
echoed  Mrs.  Cortlandt's  wish  heartily.  She  thought 
that  to  tell  her  guardian  all  about  Hendricks  would 
be  simpler  than  writing  him.  Moreover,  she  wanted 
his  warm  welcome,  and  her  sure  sense  of  his  affection. 

As  they  neared  Washington  Square  the  streets  were 
more  normal,  and  she  decided  that  the  danger  of  riots 
was  all  in  Mrs.  Cortlandt's  head,  after  all.  Baby  car- 
riages were  being  rolled  up  and  down  in  the  shade 
before  the  houses,  and  the  sun  lay  tranquilly  on  the 
yellowing  Square.  Of  course  it  was  all  nonsense,  Ann 
thought,  with  a  pitying  smile  for  one  so  aged  and 
panicky  as  competent,  middle-aged  Mrs.  Cortlandt 


298  THE  CORTLANDTS 

That  night,  safe  in  her  incredibly  comfortable  rootn, 
and  luxuriously  clean  and  crisp  in  her  starched  white 
muslin  dressing  sack,  she  wrote  a  letter  to  her  guar- 
dian. She  sat  before  the  candle  for  a  long  time, 
writing.  The  flame  made  a  streak  of  gold  along  one 
side  of  her  sleek  little  head,  and  down  the  long  braid 
that  hung  over  her  shoulder.  Now  and  then  moths, 
attracted  by  her  candle,  flew  m  from  the  dim  Square 
outside,  and  each  time  one  came,  she  took  it  carefully 
between  her  fingers,  and  carried  it  to  the  window. 
Somehow,  since  the  battle,  she  could  not  bear  to  see 
anything  die  unnecessarily. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  she  had  finished 
her  confession,  and  she  went  to  stand  in  the  window 
for  a  moment,  before  she  blew  out  her  candle.  The 
neighborhood  was  quiet ;  only  very  far  away  was  there 
a  confusion  of  noise.  A  waning  moon  rode  boister- 
ously in  a  patchy  sky,  against  which  the  tops  of  the 
elms  in  the  Square  made  a  delicate  black  pattern.  She 
was  exceedingly  glad  to  be  at  home;  the  peace  and 
comfort  of  it  was  like  a  gentle  caress;  the  pain  and 
tragedy  of  Gettysburg  seemed  a  long  way  off.  .  .  . 
She  wished  that  she  could  forget  it  ...  She 
turned  to  her  bed,  waiting,  smooth  and  white,  for  her 
tired  body.  .  .  .  Her  last  waking  thoughts  were 
of  Avezzana, — nothing  definite,  only  an  impression 
of  him  that  made  her  smile  as  she  drifted  out  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

RIOTS 

THE  following  morning  Ann  slept  late :  the  shadows 
in  the  Square  were  already  shortening  toward  mid- 
day, when  she  came  down-stairs,  and  she  cast  an  im- 
patient glance  at  the  tall  clock  in  the  hall.  It  was 
like  Mrs.  William,  she  thought,  to  guard  her  rest 
without  consulting  her,  and  on  the  very  day,  too,  when 
a  boat  was  sailing  for  Europe;  and  it  had  been  her 
intention  to  be  up  and  about  betimes,  in  order  to  get 
her  letter  off  to  Mr.  Cortlandt.  There  was  nobody  in 
the  lower  rooms,  and  she  summoned  old  Joseph  with 
undeserved  acerbity. 

He  came  shuffling  amiably  into  the  library,  in  the 
comfortable  undress  he  allowed  himself  on  a  warm 
July  morning.  Ann  looked  at  him  crossly;  his  white 
hair  was  somewhat  disheveled,  and  she  thought  that 
his  morning  smile  lacked  something  of  its  usual  gleam- 
ing pleasure  at  his  first  daily  sight  of  an  employer. 

"Where  is  everybody?"  she  inquired. 

"Mis'  Cortlandt  and  Miss  Fanny,  Miss  Ann,  was 
'bliged  to  go  to  dey  own  house.  .  .  .  Mis'  Cort- 
iandt  say  fo'  you  to  stay  hyar  until  she  come  back 
ag'in.  You  are  on  no  'count  to  go  out." 

"Hum."  Ann  was  inclined  to  insubordination,  but 
remembering  her  recent  escapades,  she  was  prudent. 
"Then  you'll  have  to  take  this  letter  to  the  post-office, 

299 


300  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Joseph.      There's  a  boat   sailing  with  the  tide  to- 
night." 

"Yes,  Miss  Ann."  He  went  off  readily  enough, 
but  Ann  had  barely  time  to  settle  down  to  Charles 
Dickens'  last  enchanting  installment  before  he  burst 
into  the  room  again,  his  face  a  sickly  lead  color.  He 
held  out  Ann's  letter  in  a  hand  that  shook. 

"I  cayn't  go,  Miss  Ann." 

"Can't  go?  Why  not,  pray?"  In  her  impatience 
she  was  suddenly  imperious. 

"Down-stairs,  Miss  Ann,  honey,  de  butcher's  boy 
says  a  fierce  mob  am  roamin'  de  streets,  yes,  ma'am, 
an'  huntin'  all  us  cullud  folks  down.  .  .  .  He  do 
say  dey's  stringin'  us  to  lamp-posts, — but  I  dunno,— 
an'  shootin'  us!  Miss  Ann,  he  say  dey's  set  fire  to 
the  cullud  orphan  'sylum  where  yo'  tuk  yo'  clothes 
when  yo'  firs'  cum  here — " 

"At  Forty-Second  Street,  you  mean?  Right  on 
Fifth  Avenue?  Nonsense!" 

"Yes,  Miss  Ann.  .  .  .  An'  all  them  po'  little 
cullud  chillen  in  it !" 

"Don't  be  silly,  Joseph.  The  police  would  never 
let  that  happen,  right  here  in  New  York.  What  was 
that?"  It  had  been  a  muffled,  distant  crash. 

"Dey's  firin',  Miss  Ann.  He  say  dey's  gone  into  de 
Draft  office,  an'  broke  dat  wheel  dey  draws  de  names 
on,  all  to  bits!" 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it!" 

"No,  ma'am.  ...  I  reckon  I  won't  go  out  to- 
day, Miss  Ann,  honey  I" 


RIOTS  301 

Ann  made  no  move  to  take  her  letter;  she  had, 
when  writing  it,  appreciated  keenly  that  every  word 
she  put  on  the  paper  would  pain  her  guardian,  and 
now  that  it  was  done  she  wanted  to  be  rid  of  it  She 
was  afraid,  if  it  remained  in  her  hands,  that  she  would 
lose  her  courage,  and  decide  not  to  mail  it,  after  all. 
When  Joseph  had  gone  off  with  it  she  had  relaxed 
into  a  great  relief.  It  was  over,  she  had  thought, 
come  what  might,  and  now,  here  it  was  back  again; 
it  was  infinitely  annoying.  Moreover,  she  didn't  half 
believe  what  she  had  heard  of  the  riots,  and  she 
thought  it  possible  that  the  old  man  was  trying  to 
evade  his  walk  in  the  heat.  She  remembered  that  Mr. 
Cortlandt  had  complained  that  Joseph  had  grown  lazy. 

"Of  course  you  will  take  my  letter,"  she  said  crisply. 
"You  must  hurry,  or  it  will  miss  the  boat." 

"No,  Miss  Ann, — no.  It  ain't  a  right  healthy  day 
fo'  a  cullud  person  to  be  out!"  He  pleaded  with  her 
as  though  the  child  he  had  helped  to  rear  was  omnipo- 
tent. 

Ann  struggled  to  be  calm  and  kind.  "If  it  doesn't 
go  at  once  it  will  miss  the  boat,"  she  explained  with 
a  careful  patience,  and  added  more  briskly,  "I  never 
heard  anything  so  absurd  in  my  life!  This  end  of 
the  town  is  perfectly  quiet.  You  can  walk  up  Uni- 
versity Place  to  Fourteenth  Street;  it  won't  take  you 
ten  minutes.  Now  hurry,  Joseph,  do;  you'll  be  home 
all  the  sooner." 

The  old  man  turned  slowly,  hesitated,  and  finally 
shuffled  out.  In  a  moment  Ann  saw  him  emerge 


302  THE  CORTLANDTS 

cautiously  into  the  peaceful  desertion  of  Washington 
Square,  and  she  smiled  at  his  foolish  panic,  although 
she  thought,  with  a  touch  of  compunction,  that  there 
was  something  pathetic  about  his  bent  old  back.  She 
felt  pleasantly  superior  to  ignorant  people  whose  fears 
were  aroused  by  tales  told  by  butchers'  boys,  but  never- 
theless she  brought  her  book  to  the  window,  so  that 
she  might  watch  for  his  return. 

Suddenly  she  heard  again  an  ominous  series  of 
muffled  crashes,  ripped  by  sharper  detonations.  It 
shook  her  tranquillity,  and  she  felt  somewhat  guilty, 
as  she  went  out  on  the  steps  to  listen.  There  she 
could  clearly  hear  distant  shots,  and  something  that 
sounded  faintly  like  a  clamor  of  voices,  but  she  could 
not  be  sure  of  it.  She  began  to  be  uneasy  about  old 
Joseph,  although  she  felt  no  real  alarm. 

In  a  few  moments  Fanny  Cortlandt  came  hurrying 
"'down  the  Square:  she  looked  pale  and  fagged,  under 
"fi&r  flopping  straw  hat.  Seeing  her  friend  on  the 
steps,  she  called  out,  as  she  hurried  toward  her,  "Isn't 
*iF39eadful,  Ann?  There  is  a  fearful  mob,  killing 
'peo'pre^  Burning  buildings,  too!  See,  over  there!" 
[9v?ftiil'  'whirled  to  look.  Off  to  the  east,  the  clear 
T»lireno>f8the  summer  sky  was  clouded  with  an  angry 
•MtquaB?  thought  of  Joseph,  and  gasped. 
^'P^s^fefrtunate  to  get  back  unmolested.  We  have 
^SieW  firckm^iip  everything  in  our  house."  She  came 
breathlessly  up  the  steps.  "Ann,  they  are  murdering 

ftfe%b#5*  torturing  them!     Isn't  it  horrible r 
mfff 


RIOTS  303 

They  say  one  poor  man —  Why,  Ann,  where  are  you 
going?" 

Ann  was  flinging  herself  down  the  steps.  She 
called  back,  "I  sent  Joseph  out !  I'm  going  after  him !" 

Fanny  sprang  after  her,  and  caught  her  by  the  arm. 
"Ann!  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing!  What  could 
you  do, — a  girl?  And  something  dreadful  might 
happen  to  you!" 

Ann  shook  her  off  savagely.  "I'm  going!"  she  de- 
clared. 

"Like  that?     Without  any  hat?" 

Ann  laughed.  "No,"  she  replied,  "with  yours!" 
She  snatched  Fanny's  from  her  smooth  head,  and  ran 
clumsily  down  the  Square.  She  forgot  all  about  her 
lame  feet  in  her  anxiety,  for  in  the  distance  she 
caught  a  murmur  of  wild  voices. 

As  she  neared  the  corner  of  University  Place,  the 
confusion  came  louder;  there  was  a  thud  of  heavy 
feet,  and  a  savage  medley  of  shouts.  Above  the  noise 
she  heard  suddenly  a  raucous  voice  calling,  "Burn 
the  nigger!  Burn  him!"  and  the  sound  of  pounding 
feet  came  louder.  Filled  with  sickening  premonition 
she  flung  herself  around  the  corner  and  stood,  horror- 
struck.  Running  down  the  center  of  the  street,  straight 
toward  her,  was  old  Joseph.  She  had  a  distinct  im- 
pression of  his  distraught  gray  face,  and  as  she  looked 
he  stumbled,  almost  spent.  Perhaps  ten  yards  behind 
him  there  were  twenty-five  or  thirty  men  and  boys, 
in  a  scattering  group.  They  could  easily  have  caught 


304  THE  CORTLANDTS 

him;  Ann  could  see  that  they  were  playing  with  him, 
— savoring  their  enjoyment  of  his  terror.  A  rage 
that  blinded  her  to  everything  else  caught  the  girl  in 
its  fierce  grip;  she  had  no  sensation  of  fear  as  she 
sprang  forward. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "stop!    He's  an  old  man!" 

Joseph  saw  her,  and  making  a  last  effort,  he  plunged 
toward  her  and  fell,  huddled  in  a  shapeless  heap,  at 
her  feet.  She  could  hear  the  rasping  gulps  of  his 
breath  as  he  lay  there.  The  leaders  of  the  group 
fell  back  on  each  side  of  her,  but  those  in  the  rear 
pushed  against  them  with  oaths,  and  laughter  more 
savage  than  their  curses.  There  were  still  vague 
shouts  of  "Kill  the  nigger!"  but  salutations  to  the  girl 
almost  drowned  them  out:  "Hello,  my  beauty!  Let 
the  nigger  be  strung  up,  but  you  come  with  us !"  For 
an  instant  Ann's  mere  presence  held  them  at  bay,  but 
the  pressure  behind  was  strong,  and  all  at  once  the 
entire  group  burst  on  them,  overwhelming  them.  The 
girl  and  the  old  negro  were  hustled  roughly  into  the 
Square. 

Ann,  feeling  for  the  first  time  strange  and  com- 
pelling hands  upon  her,  struck  out  with  a  primitive 
fury.  The  men  about  her  fell  back  laughing ;  Fanny's 
hat  had  fallen  off;  she  stood  with  her  red  hair  bare 
and  shining  like  new  minted  copper  in  the  sunlight. 
"Let  him  go,"  she  cried,  taking  advantage  of  the 
momentary  lull.  "Let  me  have  him." 

A   burst   of   laughter   greeted   this   plea.      A   man 


RIOTS  305 

shouted,  "Give  us  a  kiss,  my  dear."  Then  the  demand 
to  "Kill  the  nigger!"  arose  again,  more  fiercely. 

Under  the  confusion  of  her  fright,  Ann  began  to 
plan,  and  she  steadily  pressed  back  down  the  Square 
toward  Fifth  Avenue  and  the  haven  of  her  guardian's 
house.  She  drew  the  little  mob  with  her,  a  wild  and 
struggling  mass,  and  she  dragged  Joseph  bodily,  her 
compelling  hand  on  his  arm.  Through  her  excitement 
a  sense  of  his  piteous  condition  penetrated  poignantly. 

"Let  the  girl  have  him,"  a  voice  arose  unexpectedly, 
and  the  crowd  stilled  to  hear.  "Who  is  he,  miss?" 

"Why,  he  is  just  our  butler."  Her  young  voice 
floated  out  clearly;  every  one  heard. 

A  great  roar  of  laughter  greeted  her  announcement. 
"Damn  the  rich!"  some  one  called  out.  "They  don't 
have  to  be  drafted.  They  pay  their  dirty  money  for 
us  to  go  and  be  killed."  Her  champion  dropped  out, 
as  suddenly  as  he  had  intervened. 

"Let's  take  the  girl,  too."  A  rough-looking  youth 
Ann  had  identified  as  the  leader  caught  her  by  the 
wrist,  and  pulled  her  toward  him,  grinning.  She 
leaped  back,  ducked  under  his  outstretched  arm,  and 
wrenched  herself  free.  The  men  about  her  fell  back, 
laughing  and  half  good-natured,  waiting  to  watch  her 
fight.  She  thought  that  she  might  take  advantage  of 
this,  and  she  tried  to  shake  old  Joseph  into  some 
vitality,  so  that  they  might  attempt  a  dash  to  safety, 
but  he  was  too  terrified  to  understand.  She  could 
only  drag  him  after  her,  hopelessly,  so  she  began  to 


3o6  THE  CORTLANDTS 

plead  with  the  men  nearest  them;  breathless  and 
desperate,  she  begged  them  to  have  mercy.  Steadily 
the  little  group,  whirling  on  the  edges,  compressed  in 
the  center,  bore  down  the  Square.  Here  and  there 
Ann  caught  a  sympathetic  look  on  a  man's  face  and 
felt  that  she  was  making  some  headway.  They  were 
nearing  her  guardian's  house  when  the  leader  of  the 
mob  thrust  his  flushed  face  almost  against  her  own; 
without  further  preliminary  he  flung  his  arm  about 
her  and  said  briefly,  "You're  coming  with  me." 

She  was  horribly  frightened  now,  but  this  unbe- 
lievable thing  was  happening  to  her  almost  at  the  door 
of  her  guardian's  home;  she  was  surrounded  by  the 
houses  of  her  friends,  and  she  called  loudly  for  help. 

"Scream, — go  on,  do,"  the  man  taunted  her. 
"There  is  no  one  in  town  can  stop  us.  Give  me  a 
kiss,  my  girl!" 

Ann  pushed  him  off  feebly;  her  heart  was  beating 
sickeningly,  and  she  had  almost  stopped  struggling, 
when  all  at  once  she  was  conscious  of  a  new  element  in 
the  crowd.  There  was  confusion  on  its  edge;  some  one 
was  hitting  out  wildly.  In  a  moment  she  could  see 
that  a  man  was  pushing  toward  her;  his  fierce  attack 
had  opened  a  wide  lane  in  the  tight  pressed  group  and 
almost  before  she  realized  that  he  was  there,  he  was 
at  her  side;  he  was  white  and  breathless,  but  she  had 
a  heartening  realization  of  his  courage. 

"Is  there  a  decent  man  in  this  gang?"  he  shouted. 
"Stand  by  me,  boys!"  Two  or  three  shamefaced  vol- 
unteers pushed  their  way  to  his  side.  "That's  the 


RIOTS  307 

ticket!"  He  turned  to  Ann.  "Let  the  nigger  go," 
he  said  briefly. 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide  and  desperate  eyes. 
"I  won't,"  she  said.  "That  is  my  house,  just  there. 
Can't  we  make  it?" 

He  cast  a  brief  glance  at  the  distance.  "Run  for 
it,"  he  ordered,  as  with  a  savage  kick  he  helped  the 
limp  negro  to  regain  his  agility. 

Ann  thrust  her  arm  through  the  old  man's.  Her 
courage  and  her  strength  came  flooding  back  to  her 
with  the  opportunity  to  escape.  Joseph  rolled  desper- 
ate eyes  around  him,  and  then,  seeing  that  he  was  so 
near  home  and  safety,  he  tore  himself  from  her  grasp 
and  ran.  The  basement  door  was  open,  with  Fanny's 
frightened  face  behind  it,  and  the  fugitives  fell  into 
the  house,  safe.  The  rioters  flung  themselves  against 
the  stout  oak  door  as  the  bolt  shot  into  place.  Ann 
wasted  no  time  on  Fanny,  who,  terrified  and  half 
fainting,  seized  her  convulsively.  She  brushed  her 
aside  with  the  panic-stricken  cook,  and  ran  tumultu- 
ously  up  the  basement  steps. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Fanny  called  after  her, 
terrified. 

Ann  paused  for  an  instant  "You  stand  by  the 
door,"  she  directed.  "That  man  out  there, — he  saved 
my  life ! — Let  him  in  when  he  comes."  And  without 
waiting  for  an  answer  she  hurried  on,  lame,  breathless, 
and  often  stumbling,  up  the  long,  cruelly  steep  stairs 
to  her  uncle's  room.  There,  in  the  drawer  of  the  table 
by  Mr.  Cortlandt's  bed,  she  found  what  she  wanted. 


3o8  THE  CORTLANDTS 

It  was  a  revolver,  blue  black  and  heavy  in  her  hand. 
She  was  breathing  so  hard  that  she  had  to  wait  for 
just  an  instant  before  she  opened  the  window  in  the 
balcony  overhanging  the  Square.  Down  below  her  the 
fight  was  still  going  on;  the  dust  arose  about  it  in 
clouds,  half  obliterating  the  combatants.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  could  not  see  her  protector,  and  cold  terror 
gripped  her  until  she  discovered  him,  where  the  knot 
of  men  was  thickest.  The  attack  on  the  door  had  been 
abandoned  for  the  more  exciting  event  of  mauling 
the  girl's  champion. 

Ann  had  never  fired  a  revolver,  and  her  hands 
were  trembling  so  that  even  when  she  used  both,  the 
long  muzzle  swept  the  crowd  in  wide  curves.  "If  I 
shoot  straight,  I  shall  probably  kill  him,"  she  reflected 
grimly,  as  she  pulled  very  hard  indeed,  and  managed 
to  fire.  The  revolver  kicked,  and  the  charge  went 
high  over  the  heads  of  the  rioters;  the  report 
seemed  to  her  louder  even  than  those  that  had  burst 
about  her  at  Gettysburg.  It  had  an  instantly  calming 
effect.  There  was  a  general  tendency  to  fall  back,  and 
every  face  turned  toward  her  as  she  stood,  armed,  in 
her  balcony.  Her  unknown  champion  took  advantage 
of  the  lull  to  shake  off  his  assailants,  and  to  push  to- 
ward the  house.  She  did  not  dare  fire  down  into  the 
crowd  for  fear  of  hitting  him ;  so  she  waited.  Stones 
began  to  fall  about  her;  she  dodged  a  particularly 
vicious  one  and  heard  the  window  behind  her  crash 
into  bits.  The  crowd  was  recovering  from  its  panic, 
and  she  peered  over  the  balcony  to  see  what  was 


RIOTS  309 

happening  to  her  protector.  He  was  just  below  her, 
engaging  two  or  three  of  the  roughs  at  once,  but  ob- 
viously losing  ground,  so  she  fired  again,  deliberately, 
directly  down  into  the  crowd.  No  one  seemed  to  be 
hurt,  but  she  could  not  be  sure,  so  she  leaned  over 
the  rail  to  look.  In  her  agitation  she  dropped  her 
pistol  and  it  crashed  heavily  into  the  upturned  face 
of  the  young  leader  of  the  rioters;  he  went  down 
without  a  sound,  and  his  followers  drew  back.  Ann 
saw  the  stranger  leap  for  the  basement  door  and  heard 
it  slam  behind  him.  A  shower  of  stones  fell  about 
her  and  she  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  pain  in  her  hand 
as  she  ducked  down  hastily  and  went  back  through  the 
window  into  the  house,  where  the  terrified  servants 
were  closing  shutters  behind  the  shattered  windows. 
The  whole  neighborhood  echoed  with  the  sounds  of 
blows  upon  the  doors.  It  was  fortunate  for  the  fugi- 
tives that  this  was  the  first  day  of  mob  fighting;  when 
confronted  with  the  actual  demolishing  of  property, 
the  leaders  hung  back,  and  a  more  peaceably  inclined 
man  on  the  outskirts  urged  that  the  house  belonged  to 
Hendricks  Cortlandt,  "him  who  built  the  Old  Folk's 
Home." 

The  leader  staggered  up  unsteadily;  Mr.  Cortlandt's 
revolver  lay  at  his  feet.  He  looked  at  it  covetously 
and  then  picked  it  up;  it  was  not  a  bad  prize  to  have 
won. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "even  the  rich  ain't  all  alike. 
We'll  let  this  nigger  go,  and  get  us  another  one  some- 
where else." 


3io  THE  CORTLANDTS 

The  women,  palpitating  at  a  crack  in  the  shutters, 
could  scarcely  believe  their  eyes  when  they  saw  the 
crowd  move  off.  They  had  all  expected  the  worst. 

In  the  meantime  Ann's  champion  lay  where  he  had 
fallen  when  he  had  staggered  into  the  house.  From 
one  blue  trousers  leg  a  bright  red  stain  was  slowly 
spreading,  wet  and  ominous.  When  Ann  came  down 
the  stairs  and  saw  him,  she  gasped  sharply  and  the 
color  went  out  of  her  lips.  "Did  I  shoot  him?"  she 
asked,  agonized. 

The  man  managed  to  lift  his  head.  "Don't  you 
fret,"  he  murmured.  "It's  an  old  wound.  I'm  just 
out  of  hospital."  Then  he  dropped  again,  and  lay, 
limp  and  white,  on  the  basement  floor. 

Ann  sent  Fanny  flying  for  her  guardian's  whisky, 
and  the  cook  to  boil  water  for  bottles  to  put  at  her 
new  patient's  feet,  while  she  cut  away  his  blood  soaked 
trousers  leg.  She  found  that  the  bleeding  came  from 
a  gash  above  the  knee,  which  was  only  half  healed, 
and  had,  obviously,  reopened;  it  was  a  comparatively 
simple  matter  for  her  to  stop  the  bleeding,  and  to 
dress  the  wound  with  towels  torn  into  strips.  The 
stranger  did  not  regain  consciousness,  but  his  pulse 
was  fairly  strong,  so  when  she  had  finished  with  his 
dressings  Ann  risked  moving  him  to  the  bedroom  floor. 
She  routed  old  Joseph  from  the  cellar,  where,  on  re- 
gaining his  safety,  he  had  taken  refuge,  and  the  old 
man  and  the  women  managed  to  carry  the  limp  body 
of  Ann's  rescuer  up-stairs  to  the  guest  room,  where 


RIOTS  31  r 

the  cook  cut  his  clothes  away,  and  dressed  him  in  a 
nightshirt  of  Mr.  Cortlandt's. 

When  Ann  bent  over  him  she  found  something 
hauntingly  familiar  in  his  lean  face,  bearded  only 
sparsely,  and  well  below  the  high  cheek-bones;  she 
thought  that  she  might  have  seen  him  in  a  hospital 
somewhere.  She  gave  him  a  tablespoonful  of  whisky 
and  in  a  moment  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at 
her.  He  smiled  and  his  lips  parted.  She  bent  to 
hear,  impersonally,  as  she  had  so  often  done  in  the 
hospitals. 

"Annie  Byrne,"  the  young  man  murmured,  please<L 
And  then,  "Kiss  me  again,  Annie,  do!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HENDRICKS  AND    PETER 

ANN  closed  the  guest  room  door  behind  her  with  a 
careful  hand,  for  almost  immediately  after  his  recog- 
nition of  her,  her  patient  had  dropped  into  a  profound 
sleep.  She  knew  him,  too,  now,  and  chuckled  to  her- 
self at  the  extraordinary  turns  her  life  took.  She 
faced  on  the  threshold,  a  transfigured  Fanny.  The 
gentle  creature's  eyes  blazed ;  her  lips  were  dead  white. 

"Ann,"  she  demanded,  "when  did  you  kiss  that 
man?"  The  hostility  in  her  low  voice  made  Ann 
look  at  her  in  amazement. 

"What  man?"  her  uncertainty  was  genuine. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Fanny,  "don't  you  even  notice  it 
when  you  kiss  a  man, — and  you  engaged  to  Hen- 
dricks?" 

Ann  laughed;  in  her  relief  at  her  escape  and  her 
champion's  safety,  she  felt  extraordinarily  light- 
hearted,  and  possibly  a  little  light-headed,  too.  "We 
can  eliminate  Hendricks,"  she  said  carelessly. 

Fanny  put  out  her  hands  in  a  touchingly  blind  ges- 
ture. They  gripped  a  chair-back  hard,  while  her  eyes 
never  left  Ann's  face.  "What  do  you  mean?"  she 
whispered,  an  uplift  of  hope  trembling  in  her  voice. 

"It  is  all  over  between  Hendricks  and  me,  Fanny. 
I  have  written  to  tell  him  so." 

"Oh,"  cried  Fanny,  indignation  engulfing  every 
312 


HENDRICKS  AND  PETER  313 

other  sensation.  "You  have  jilted  him! — Jilted  Hen- 
dricks  while  he  is  at  the  front!" 

Ann  nodded  soberly.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "and  a  good 
thing  for  him,  too." 

She  had  been  wondering  how  she  could  make  her 
case  so  that  the  relations  would  understand,  and  sud- 
denly Fanny  said  the  whole  thing  in  five  shattering 
words,  "You  have  never  loved  him!" 

"No,"  Ann  confessed  flatly.  She  added,  in  quick 
entreaty,  "But,  oh,  Fanny, — I've  tried  to  I" 

"Tried  to,"  repeated  Fanny,  wondering,  "tried  to — 
love  Hendricks."  Her  dove's  eyes  were  starry. 

"It  was  no  good,  I  couldn't  make  myself." 

"I  suppose  there  is  no  more  use  trying  to  make  one's 
self  love, — than  there  is  to  try  to  stop  loving,"  the 
other  commented  simply. 

"Fanny,"  Ann  ventured,  her  eyes  filled  with  unac- 
customed tears,  "I've  been  so  unhappy!" 

Fanny's  soft  heart  almost  betrayed  her.  "You  must 
have  been,"  she  said  gently.  Her  hand  fluttered  to- 
ward Ann's.  Just  in  time  she  snatched  it  back.  "But 
Hendricks !"  she  cried.  "How  unhappy  he  will  be !" 

"Not  really,"  Ann  protested.  "I  would  have  made 
him  miserable,  if  we  had  married.  ...  I  am 
everything  he  doesn't  approve  of.  You  know  that, 
Fanny!  Even  if  I  had  gone  on  pretending  all  my 
life,  he  wouldn't  have  been  satisfied.  Hendricks  should 
marry  some  one  entirely  different  from  me, — some  one 
softer,  gentler, — some  one  who  wouldn't  shock  him, 
demand  things  he  hasn't  of  him, — some  one  very 


314  THE  CORTLANDTS 

yielding  and  sweet, — some  one  like — like  you,  Fanny !" 
Suddenly  she  took  in  the  other's  tremulous  confusion: 
her  eyes  widened  as  they  dwelt  on  the  other  girl's 
crimsoning  face.  "Fanny  Cortlandt,"  she  cried,  "you 
are  in  love  with  him  yourself!" 

Fanny's  little  hands  crept  up  over  her  telltale  cheeks. 
All  her  pitiful  defenses  were  stormed.  "I  couldn't 
help  it,  Ann,"  she  murmured  miserably. 

Ann  looked  at  her  in  wonder;  an  unwilling  admira- 
tion for  her  friend's  steadfastness  was  borne  in  upon 
her.  "In  love  like  that,"  she  marveled,  "and  with 
Hendricks!" 

Fanny  flared  at  once.  "You  mustn't  speak  of  him 
in  that  way!  He  is  too  good  for  you!  It's  he  who 
should  have  jilted  you,  Ann  Byrne!" 

Ann  nodded  humbly.  "I  wish  he  had,"  she  said, 
and  sighed.  "It  would  have  been  so  much  simpler." 

"Do  you  love  any  one  else?" 

Quite  unbidden  Ann's  mind  leaped  to  Avezzana; 
for  an  instant  she  had  a  clear  vision  of  his  slim  figure, 
and  his  disquieting  gaze.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said, 
confused. 

Fanny  jerked  her  head  toward  the  door.  "That 
private?  That  man  in  there?" 

Ann  laughed.     "Peter?" 

"Is  that  his  name?" 

"It  is  all  I  know  of  his  name.  I  used  to  go  to 
school  with  him  in  Milton  Center,  but  I  haven't  seen 
him  since."  She  disposed  of  him  thus  lightly. 

"He  saved  your  life,"  Fanny  interposed  sternly. 


HENDRICKS  AND  PETER  '315 

"I  know.  He  was  awfully  brave.  But  almost  all 
men  are  brave,  Fanny.  War  makes  you  realize  that." 

Fanny  nodded ;  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  remain 
disapproving.  Her  shining  eyes  betrayed  her  sudden 
joyousness,  and  Ann  laughed  as  she  flung  her  long 
arms  about  her  and  kissed  her.  They  each  drew  back 
from  this  unaccustomed  caress,  embarrassed,  all  at 
once,  by  the  complete  frankness  of  their  understanding. 

Suddenly  a  bell  pealed  through  the  house  and  Ann 
ran  to  lean  over  the  stair  rail.  "I  think  Joseph  is 
afraid  to  go,"  she  called  back  to  Fanny.  The  bell 
rang  again,  a  quick  impatient  jangle,  and  she  gathered 
her  floating  skirts  about  her.  "See  if  it  waked  him," 
she  said,  nodding  over  her  shoulder  at  the  wounded 
man's  room,  and  as  Fanny  started  to  obey  her,  she  ran 
down  to  open  the  door. 

She  could  see,  outlined  against  the  clouded  glass 
pane,  a  shape  that  was  somehow  familiar.  There  was 
something  about  it  that  made  her  vaguely  uneasy, — 
perhaps  it  was  the  set  of  the  military  cap  which  dis- 
turbed her, — but  she  was  in  no  way  prepared  for  the 
revelation  she  had  when  she  opened  the  door.  "Hen- 
dricks!"  she  gasped,  clinging  weakly  to  the  big  silver 
knob.  And  Hendricks  it  was,  big,  impressive,  and 
quite  evidently  indignant. 

"Well,  Ann?"  he  boomed  at  her,  startled  at  her 
sudden  appearance.  "I  wonder  that  you  can  look  me 
in  the  face." 

"Hendricks, — here  in  New  York!  Come  in;  we 
shall  all  be  so  glad  to  see  you!"  She  was  talking 


3i6  THE  CORTLANDTS 

nervously,  and  pulling  him  toward  the  library.  She 
wanted  to  settle  with  him  before  Fanny  knew  that  he 
was  there,  for  she  guessed  that  a  scene  was  inevit- 
able. She  was  not  surprised  when  he  pulled  the  li- 
brary door  to  behind  him,  with  a  crash  that  shook  the 
house. 

"You've  had  my  note,"  she  said. 

"Yes!  That's  why  I'm  here,  taking  a  leave  at  a 
time  like  this!"  he  stormed.  "Ann!"  he  looked  at  her, 
shrinking,  guilty  and  sorry,  and  his  wrath  melted. 
"Say  you  didn't  mean  it,  Ann,"  he  pleaded. 

"I  wish  I  could,  Hendricks!  Oh,  my  dear,  I  wish 
I  could,  but  I  am  through  with  pretending!  I  don't 
love  you,  Hendricks.  I  wish  I  did,  but  I  don't." 

"But  I  love  you  so  much." 

"I  know.  I  don't  see  how  you  can.  You  hate 
everything  I  do,  you  know,  Hendricks." 

"But  I've  always  thought  that  I  would  change  all 
that,  once  we  were  married." 

"It  wouldn't  have  happened  that  way." 

"I  don't  care.  You  can  do  anything  you  want, 
Knn,  if  you  won't  throw  me  over." 

"It  is  no  use,  Hendricks.  I  hate  myself,  but  that 
doesn't  make  me  love  you." 

Suddenly  all  Hendricks'  stalwart  masculine  impres- 
siveness  broke  up  before  the  girl's  startled  gaze.  He 
looked  at  her  with  eyes  which  were  quite  obviously 
filling  with  tears,  and  as  he  swung  sharply  away,  a 
great  sob  horrified  her.  She  clenched  her  hands  tight 
to  keep  from  comforting  him,  as  he  stood  with  his 


HENDRICKS  AND  PETER  317 

head  down  on  his  arm,  at  the  empty  fireplace.  "I  am 
sorry,"  she  kept  repeating  futilely.  "I'm  so  sorry." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  he  straightened,  and 
faced  her  with  more  dignity  than  he  had  ever  shown 
her.  "What  am  I  going  to  do  with  my  life?"  he  de- 
manded. He  blew  his  nose  with  a  desperation  that 
was  somehow  not  at  all  ludicrous. 

"Wonderful  things,  Hendricks!"  She  had  a  flashing 
memory  of  him  at  Gettysburg.  "Brave  things!" 

Hendricks,  too,  had  a  vision  of  battle,  and  the  seek- 
ing, questing,  slaughter.  "Thank  God  I  have  to  go 
back,"  he  said  gloomily. 

This  was  too  much  for  Ann.  She  ran  to  him,  and 
clasped  both  her  hands  about  his  arm.  "Don't  talk 
like  that  I"  she  cried.  "Don't!" 

Hendricks  .looked  down  steadily  at  her  lifted  face. 
"I  can't  help  kissing  you  if  you  do  that,"  he  said. 

Swiftly  she  released  her  hold,  flung  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  drew  his  face  down  to  hers.  She  kissed 
him,  with  tender  lips.  "That's  for  good-by,"  she 
whispered,  and  he  whispered  in  return,  "You  never 
were  so  sweet." 

It  was  terrible :  it  was  beyond  her  worst  dreams  of 
parting.  She  struggled  to  hold  fast  to  her  resolve; 
she  recalled,  wildly,  a  gaze  as  desperate  and  more 
darkly  compelling;  she  remembered  Fanny.  .  .  . 
Fanny !  "Hendricks,"  she  said  eagerly,  "listen  to  me. 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you." 

"Don't  tell  me  that  you  love  some  one  else!"  He 
put  up  his  arm  as  if  to  fend  off  a  blow.' 


THE  CORTLANDTS 


"No.     Some  one  else  loves  you." 

"Some  one  loves  me?     What  of  it?" 

"This;  —  she  adores  you!  She  has  always  loved 
you,  Hendricks!  If  I  had  never  stumbled  into  your 
life  you  would  have  married  her,  I  know.  She  is  so 
sweet,  so  pretty!  I  don't  see  how  you  could  ever 
have  looked  at  me,  when  she  was  here."  She  cast 
about  her  for  a  compelling  reason  to  bring  interest  to 
Hendricks'  dull  eyes.  "She  loves  you  so  much,"  she 
ended  flatly. 

"Who  does?"  he  asked  impatiently. 

"Fanny." 

"Fanny?  Nonsense!  Fanny!  You  must  be  mis- 
taken, Ann.  .  .  .  Poor  little  Fanny!  She  has 
always  been  fond  of  me,  I  know,  —  but  love?  Well, 
•well,  —  Fanny  !" 

Ann  ached  to  be  away  from  this  atmosphere  of  des- 
perate renunciation.  "Think  it  over,  Hendricks,"  she 
said  crisply,  and,  taking  advantage  of  his  bewilder- 
ment, she  slipped  into  the  hall  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her  with  a  heartening  sensation  of  relief.  "That's 
done,"  she  said  clearly. 

She  stood  for  a  moment,  listening,  and  then  she 
turned  to  the  stairs  and  her  forgotten  patient. 

She  found  Fanny  seated  by  the  bed,  endeavoring  to 
make  trivial  conversation  with  the  raw-boned  stranger, 
and  obviously  glad  to  see  her.  In  spite  of  all  her 
kindness  Fanny  could  never  carry  off  a  conversation 
with  no  foundations.  "Who  was  it?"  she  asked. 


HENDRICKS  AND  PETER  319 

Ann  hesitated  for  an  instant.  "It  is  some  one  to 
see  you." 

"To  see  me?  A  caller,  and  the  city  in  this  state? 
Who  is  it,  Ann?" 

"I  don't  know.     You  had  better  go  down." 

The  girl  rose,  somewhat  flustered.  She  looked  down 
at  her  spreading  pink  checked  skirts,  "Am  I  all 
right?"  she  demanded. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Wait  a  moment."  Ann  tucked  in  a 
stray  lock  of  Fanny's  smooth  hair.  "You  look  sweet," 
she  murmured. 

Her  friend  flushed  brilliantly.  "Don't  be  silly/'  she 
reproved  her,  with  abashed  eyes,  as  she  stole  away. 
Ann,  listening,  could  hear  the  light  tap  tap  of  her 
heels  as  she  hurried  down  the  hall. 

Peter  lay  looking  at  her  with  eager  eyes.  Meeting 
them,  she  dragged  herself  back  from  the  engrossing 
solution  of  her  personal  problem,  and  went  to  sit  be- 
side him.  .  .  .  He  was  good-looking,  in  spite  of 
his  rough  beard,  she  decided,  as  his  stern  face  softened 
in  a  welcoming  smile. 

"Annie,"  he  murmured.    "Well,  well !" 

"How  strange  that  it  should  have  been  you  who 
saved  me,  Peter." 

"Strange?  I  don't  know:  I  have  always  thought 
about  you  a  lot,  anyway." 

"You  have?" 

"Yes.  You  see  your  mother's  marriage  was  the 
most  interesting  thing  that  ever  happened  in  Milton 


320  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Center.  I  was  coming  over  here  to  take  a  look  at 
the  house  where  you  lived,  when  you — happened 
along." 

"Are  you  badly  hurt?  I  can't  send  the  servants 
for  a  doctor  with  the  streets  in  this  condition,  but  I'll 
go  myself,  if  you  need  one." 

Peter's  chin,  already  noticeable,  squared  itself  ag- 
gressively above  his  sheets.  "You  keep  off  the 
streets,"  he  said  definitely.  "I'm  all  right !  I  haven't 
got  my  strength  back,  that's  all,  and  somebody  kicked 
my  bad  leg." 

"I'm  sorry.  It  was  all  my  fault.  You  must  stay 
here  until  you  are  well  again.  How  long  a  leave  have 
you?" 

"Indefinite.  I  can't  go  back.  They  say  I'll  always 
limp,  if  I  walk  much." 

"What  a  pity." 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to  see  the  fighting  through,  of  course." 

"You  need  a  good  rest,  just  out  of  hospital." 

Peter  nodded.  "I've  never  loafed  in  my  life,  but 
now  I'm  planning  to  go  to  Milton  Center  to  stay  with 
my  sister  until  I'm  fit  to  work  again.  .  .  .  It's 
four  years  since  I've  been  back  there." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Chicago.  I  was  running  a  machine  shop  out  there 
when  the  war  began.  Got  it  paid  for,  too, — and  was 
just  beginning  to  make  a  little  money  of  my  own. 
.  .  .  Kind  of  hard  luck.  .  .  .  But  I  can  pick  up 
my  business  when  I  go  back.  I've  managed  to  keep 
the  rent  up  out  of  my  army  pay." 


HENDRICKS  AND  PETER  321 

"What  does  one  do  in  a  machine  shop,  Peter?" 

Peter  laughed.  "A  little  of  everything.  Mending 
things,  mostly.  I  used  to  do  that  before  I  left  Milton 
Center.  I  worked  for  a  while  in  the  blacksmith  shop 
there,  and  I  kept  that  sewing-machine  you  sent  Mrs. 
Allen  the  first  Christmas  after  you  went,  in  order.  I 
suppose  if  I  fixed  it  once  I  fixed  it  a  hundred  times," 
he  added  reflectively. 

"That's  a  funny  business, — mending." 

"Well,  I  make  things  too, — invent  'em." 

"You  had  better  talk  to  uncle  about  that.  Some- 
times he  buys  inventions." 

"He  won't  buy  mine!  I'm  goin'  to  have  the  fun 
of  developing  my  own  ideas.  I'd  be  further  along 
now,  except  I've  had  responsibilities.  My  mother  was 
sick  for  years,  an'  then  my  sister's  husband  turned  out 
wrong,  an'  I've  had  her  and  her  little  girl,  but  he  was 
killed  at  Fredericksburg,  an*  left  her  with  life  in- 
surance,— not  much,  but  enough.  My  mother  died 
last  year,  and  I'm  free  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
free,  and  in  a  growing  town." 

"It  sounds  exciting.  If  I  had  stayed  in  Milton. 
Center  I  should  have  been  sorry  I  wasn't  a  man,  so 
that  I  might  have  worked  with  you." 

"If  you  had  stayed  in  Milton  Center  I  should  proba- 
bly be  sorry  you  weren't  a  man,  too.  I've  got  no  time 
to  fall  in  love." 

Ann  laughed,  but  she  flushed  under  this  backhanded 
compliment. 

"You  have  never  been  back  ?"  Peter  asked. 


322  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"To  Milton  Center?     No." 

"Kind  of  mean  of  you."  Ann  looked  at  him  ques- 
tioningly.  "Mrs.  Allen  thought  a  sight  of  you  and 
your  mother." 

"I  suppose  she  did." 

"Of  course  everybody  knows  that  you,  or  your  rich 
relations,  sent  her  money  every  month,  but  she'd  have 
enjoyed  a  sight  of  you  before  she  died.  She  used  to 
talk  about  you  sometimes  to  me;  I  liked  to  hear  about 
the  way  you  lived.  This  man  Cortlandt  is  the  kind  of 
man  I'm  going  to  be,  some  day." 

Ann  laughed  involuntarily.  "Like  Uncle  Hen- 
dricks?"  she  cried  incredulously. 

A  dull  red  burned  on  Peter's  hollow  cheeks.  "You 
wait  and  see,"  was  all  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

COMPANIONSHIP 

PETER  SMITH  remained  almost  a  month  in  the 
Washington  Square  house,  as  Mrs.  Cortlandt  refused 
to  let  him  go  until  he  was  entirely  recovered.  She 
made  a  great  fuss  over  him,  professing  that  he  had 
saved,  not  merely  Ann,  but  also  her  own  Fanny,  and, 
incidentally,  the  entire  Cortlandt  house  and  posses- 
sions, from  the  violence  of  the  mob.  She  had  his  leg 
attended  to  by  the  best  doctor  in  New  York,  and  she 
fed  him  up  with  dainties  until  his  lean  cheeks  took  on 
a  softer  outline. 

She  sat  for  hours  by  his  bedside,  talking  conde- 
scendingly to  him  about  things  of  which  he  knew 
nothing,  and  at  dinner  she  would  say  to  the  two  girls, 
"The  most  amazing  thing  about  the  war  is  the  way  it 
makes  people  democratic!"  She  was,  nevertheless, 
inclined  to  keep  rather  a  rigid  chaperonage  over 
Fanny's  and  Ann's  interviews  with  the  invalid.  "You 
never  can  tell,"  she  said  wisely  to  them,  "with  people 
like  that." 

For  the  first  few  days  Peter  was  in  the  house,  Ann 
slept  most  of  the  time.  Gettysburg  left  her  exhausted; 
all  she  wanted  to  do  was  to  lie,  placid,  happy  and  utter- 
ly relaxed,  between  her  cool  linen  sheets.  When  she 
was  about  again,  the  riots  were  a  thing  of  the  past,  and 
Hendricks  had  returned  to  his  regiment.  Her  life  was 

323 


324  THE  CORTLANDTS 

suddenly  drained  of  excitement.  The  family  doctor, 
who  had  advised  a  week  in  bed,  now  insisted  on  a  va- 
cation from  her  work  in  the  hospitals,  and  for  once 
Ann  was  willing  to  obey.  She  had  literally  nothing  to 
do,  and  was  glad  of  it,  as  she  felt  strangely  languid 
and  foolishly  content.  She  liked  to  talk  to  Peter ;  she 
had  an  extraordinary  sense  of  kinship  with  him.  Per- 
haps it  was  because  of  their  bond  of  early  association, 
— no  one  else  knew  the  surroundings  from  which  she 
had  sprung, — or  possibly  it  was  a  deeper  thing  than 
that,  a  mutual  recognition  of  fundamental  qualities  in 
each  other.  She  found  that  she  was  able  to  talk  to  him 
of  her  work  in  the  hospitals,  and  of  all  that  ghastly 
week  at  Gettysburg,  with  a  freedom  she  had  before 
known  only  when  with  her  guardian.  In  return  he  told 
her  all  about  the  war  from  a  private  soldier's  view- 
point— a  vastly  different  war,  Ann  found,  than  it  was 
when  seen  through  the  eyes  of  an  officer.  .  .  .  They 
talked  of  her  mother,  too.  It  seemed  that  Peter  re- 
tained the  clearest  memory  of  her  sweet  perfection; 
that  she  had  been  a  sort  of  fairy  princess  to  him,  in  his 
little  boyhood. 

"The  day  we  heard  her  boat  had  sunk,"  he  told 
Ann,  "I  hid  up  in  the  hayloft,  and  cried.  .  .  .  It's 
.  the  last  time  I  ever  did  such  a  thing." 

"I  wish  I  had  known  that,  down  here  in  New  York. 
It  would  have  helped  a  lot" 

"It's  a  good  thing  you  left  Milton  Center,"  Peter 
assured  her.  "There's  nothing  there  for  any  one  with 


COMPANIONSHIP  325 

a  scrap  of  ambition.  It  isn't  big  enough.  I'm  glad 
I  got  out  when  I  did;  I  was  getting  on  all  right,  but, 
you  see,  there  was  a  limit  to  it.  ...  There's  no 
limit  in  Chicago, — not  yet.  ...  In  the  beginning 
out  there,  I  had  a  pretty  hard  time  to  get  on  my  feet, 
but  I  was  never  sorry  I  went,  even  when  I  was  hungry. 
A  man  has  a  chance  in  Chicago:  I'll  be  a  big  man 
before  I  get  through  out  there.  You'll  see." 

He  thrust  his  head  forward.  There  was  an  eager, 
seeking  look  in  his  eyes;  he  might  have  been  a  poet 
hailing  an  inspiration,  and,  so  stimulated,  he  was  sud- 
denly glorified.  Ann  realized,  all  at  once,  that  she 
had  been  wrong  in  thinking  him  a  plain  man.  There 
was  beauty  in  the  lift  of  his  head,  and  in  the  wistful 
lines  of  his  jaw.  He  recalled  vividly  the  little  boy 
she  had  known;  he  brought  her  childhood  before  her, 
and  it  became  momentarily  a  vital  part  of  her  life. 
She  smiled  tremulously  into  his  lit  eyes,  and  he  started 
violently.  Lost  in  his  dream,  he  had  forgotten  all 
about  her. 

"You  care  very  much,  don't  you  ?"  she  asked  gently. 

He  laughed,  with  sudden  harshness.  "Care? 
That's  a  soft  word.  I'm — ambitious,  I  suppose;  I'm 
determined  to  get  out  of  the  kind  of  life  I've  lived. 
I'm  going  to  work  hard  enough  to  earn  the  right  to 
have  other  men  work  for  me,  and  then  I'll  do  some- 
thing big.  ...  If  this  war  had  come  ten  years 
later,  do  you  think  I'd  have  been  a  private?  No, — » 
I'd  have  outfitted  a  company  and  gone  in  a  captain, 


326  THE  CORTLANDTS 

like  your  Renneslyer.  ...  In  the  ranks!  .  .  . 
I'm  going  to  get  out  of  the  ranks,  do  you  hear  me, 
— clear  out,  in  front  of  'em." 

"Well,  don't  shout  so.  It's  too  hot"  Sinn's  voice 
was  cool,  but  her  gray  eyes  rested  softly  on  him. 
She  liked  the  fine  sweep  of  his  ambition.  "I  wonder," 
she  said,  "what  I'll  be  doing,  while  you're  getting  rich 
and  powerful." 

Peter  broke  off  in  mid-flight ;  his  look  of  inspiration 
suddenly  drooped,  and  his  eyes  were  hungry  as  they 
searched  her  face.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "you'll  be  marrying 
some  lucky  man." 

"I  suppose  so."  Her  voice  was  indifferent;  the 
prospect  seemed  remote. 

Peter  talked  no  more  that  afternoon;  instead  he  lay 
very  still,  watching  Ann  with  somber  eyes.  For  once, 
she  welcomed  Mrs.  Cortlandt,  when  that  lady  came 
bustling  in. 

When  the  invalid  began  to  get  about,  Fanny  and 
Ann  drove  with  him  around  the  city,  showing  him 
the  places  of  interest,  and  listening  to  his  disparage- 
ment of  them,  in  comparison  with  the  extraordinary 
frontier  phenomena  of  Chicago.  Fanny,  innately  a 
New  Yorker,  remained  tranquil  under  these  disclo- 
sures, and  turned  a  pitying  smile  upon  the  provincial 
young  man,  but  Ann,  who,  it  must  be  confessed,  did 
her  best  to  follow  her  friend's  lead,  was  unable  to  stifle 
a  faint  suspicion  that  there  might  possibly  be  some- 
thing in  what  Peter  said.  She  knew,  however,  that 
the  thought  was  unworthy  of  her. 


COMPANIONSHIP  327 

"It  is  a  pity  there  is  no  opera  in  the  summer-time," 
Fanny  said  one  day.  "It  would  be  nice  if  you  could 
have  an  opportunity  to  hear  one,  now  that  you  are  in. 
New  York." 

"Oh,  I've  heard  opera  in  Chicago,"  Peter  assured 
her.  "The  year  before  the  war,  we  had  four  different 
companies,  a  couple  of  weeks  each  one.  I  went  once, 
to  La  Somnambula.  I  didn't  like  it,  though;  I'll  have 
to  admit  that.  It  was  at  Metropolitan  Hall.  You've 
nothing  finer  than  that  in  New  York, — at  least,  not 
much  finer." 

But  it  made  no  difference  what  he  said,  Fanny  was 
impervious. 

One  afternoon  just  before  he  left  Washington 
Square,  Ann  and  Peter  drove  alone;  the  day  was 
sultry,  so  they  decided  to  go  to  Battery  Park  in  search 
of  a  sea  breeze.  They  were  both  a  trifle  uplifted  at 
getting  rid  of  Fanny's  determined  loquaciousness,  but 
without  her  they  were  rather  silent  as  they  drove 
through  the  miles  of  arid  streets,  lined  with  conserva- 
tive houses.  Now  and  then  the  girl  pointed  out  the 
dwelling  of  a  friend,  but  for  the  most  part  they  lay 
languidly  back  against  the  cushions;  under  her  wide 
hat  brim  Ann's  eyes  were  dark  shadowed,  and  Peter's 
face  was  white,  above  his  close  brown  beard.  It  was 
really  very  hot. 

At  the  park  entrance,  Peter  insisted  that  they  get 
out,  and  walk  over  to  the  shore.  Ann  protested  a 
little,  smilingly,  but  finally  she  lifted  her  flounced  and 
flowered  muslin  clear  of  the  wheels,  climbed  down  the 


-328  THE  CORTLANDTS 

precarious  folding  steps  of  the  barouche,  and  allowed 
him  to  lead  her  across  the  strip  of  lawn  to  where  the 
river  flowed  magnificently  past  them  to  the  near-by 
jsea,     A  faint  breeze  from  the  ocean  drifted  tentatively 
;over  to  them,  now  and  then,  and  Ann  sniffed  it  de- 
lightedly. 

,  -  "Delicious,"  she  said.  "Let's  sit  here  for  a  while." 
Peter  found  her  an  iron  chair,  and  he  sprawled  at  her 
feet,  looking  up  at  her  intently.  She  took  off  her  hat 
with  the  raking  brim,  and  sat  smoothing  the  ends  of 
a  lace  barbe  that  trimmed  it;  her  eyes  were  intent  on 
her  caressing  fingers,  her  chignon  shone  in  the  sun- 
light. In  the  opening  of  her  collar  her  throat  was 
very  white, — as  white  as  her  forehead,  under  her 
parted  hair. 

They  sat  there  for  some  time;  Ann  watched  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  in  the  park  grow  longer,  while 
the  late  afternoon  colors  stole  into  the  sky,  and  Peter 
watched  Ann.  Afterward  she  could  not  have  told  what 
they  had  talked  about,  but  she  remembered  that  steady 
disconcerting  look.  Much  of  the  time  they  said  noth- 
ing at  all,  but  a  realization  that  she  should  miss  Peter 
was  borne  in  on  her.  She  felt  very  miserable,  and 
she  wondered  if  this  time,  too,  it  would  be  many  years 
before  she  saw  him  again;  she  wished  that  she  might 
keep  him  near  her  always,  a  comfortable  companion. 
"Life,"  she  said  at  length,  "is  horrid." 

"Yes."  Peter  sat  suddenly  upright  and  clasped  his 
hands  around  his  sound  knee.  He  turned  his  gaze, 
with  something  of  an  effort,  from  the  girl's  face  to 


COMPANIONSHIP  329 

the  rolling  river.  "No  matter  how  carefully  he  plans, 
a  man  is  always  a  fool." 

She  nodded.     "Yes, — just  like  a  woman." 

Peter  remained  somber.  "I  had  it  all  planned  out 
I  was  going  to  let  all  this  alone,  you  know,  until  I 
was  about  forty-five,  and  had  time  for  it." 

"Time  for  what?" 

"Love." 

Ann's  eyes  widened,  and  she  straightened  in  her 
iron  chair.  It  was  the  first  time  the  word  had  been 
spoken  by  either  of  them,  and  now  it  lay  like  a  gage 
between  them.  "We'd  better  be  going  home,"  she 
murmured.  "It  must  be  supper  time."  She  didn't 
want  Peter  to  make  love  to  her;  she  didn't  want  any- 
thing to  spoil  the  perfect  companionship  of  the  past 
four  weeks. 

He  made  no  effort  to  detain  her.  It  was  not  until 
they  were  going  up  the  steps  of  the  Washington 
Square  house  that  he  spoke  again.  "I'm  about  twenty 
years  ahead  of  my  schedule,"  he  said  cryptically. 

Ann  did  not  ask  him  to  explain. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A   PROPOSAL 

PETER'S  departure  made  an  enormous  gap  in  Ann's 
life,  and  she  turned  confidently  to  Fanny  to  fill  it. 
She  wanted  a  good  gossip  about  Hendricks,  but  to 
her  surprise,  she  found  her  friend  singularly  elusive. 
Mrs.  William  gave  her  to  understand  that  the  cousins 
had  been  together  almost  constantly  while  Hendricks 
was  at  home,  but  beyond  that  Fanny's  mother  was  for 
once  uncommunicative.  She  turned  a  ready  purple 
with  resentment  at  the  upstart's  treatment  of  her 
nephew,  but  at  the  same  time  the  culprit  fancied  that 
she  rejoiced  in  it.  At  any  rate,  Ann  thought,  Mrs. 
William's  opinion  made  no  difference,  it  was  her 
uncle's  judgment  of  the  matter  which  she  awaited 
with  impatience. 

By  the  time  it  came  she  had  grown  accustomed  to 
the  monotony  of  a  life  shorn  of  emotion.  She  liked 
the  long  unpunctuated  days  of  late  summer.  The  sight 
of  the  foreign  envelope  filled  her  with  a  strange  dread ; 
subconsciously  she  feared  a  reawakening. 

Paris,  August  29th,  1863. 
MY  DEAR  ANN: 

I  have  received  three  letters  in  my  last  week's  mail 
and  I  may  say  that  their  contents  astonish  me.  I 
feel  an  old  man  and  a  sad  one,  after  reading  them. 
My  sister's-in-law  I  will  not  dwell  on.  She  wrote 

330 


A  PROPOSAL  331 

me  at  length  of  your  trip  to  Gettysburg,  and  while, 
at  this  distance,  it  seems  an  unnecessary  thing  to  have 
undertaken,  I  feel  that  I  am  too  far  away  for  judg- 
ment I  can  only  be  glad  you  are  safe  at  home  again 
and  thankful  that  Hendricks  is  spared  to  us. 

Your  letter  told  me  of  your  final  resolution  to  break 
with  my  nephew.  I  can  not  say  that  I  am  surprised, 
particularly  in  the  light  of  later  events. 

"What  events?"  Ann  murmured,  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand. 

I  will  not  conceal  from  you  the  fact  that  I  am  dis- 
appointed. I  had  hoped  that,  as  time  and  the  war 
went  on,  you  might  become  attached  to  him;  if,  how- 
ever, you  can  not  care  for  him,  you  are  right  in  refus- 
ing to  marry.  I  have  written  him,  and  should  tell 
you  that  I  told  him  he  will  share  equally  with  you  in 
my  property.  It  seems  to  me  but  fair  to  reward  in 
this  way,  his  fine  accomplishments  as  a  soldier,  and 
you  will,  please  God,  have  enough  with  but  half. 

And  now,  to  the  more  serious  matter  of  the  other 
letter.  You  have  never,  in  your  letters,  mentioned 
knowing-  a  Count  Avezzana,  and  yet  he  writes  me  for 
permission  to  ask  your  hand  in  marriage. 

Ann  gasped,  and  hastily  reread  this  amazing  state- 
ment, plainly  written  in  her  guardian's  fine  legible 
hand. 

He  writes  me  for  permission  to  ask  your  hand  in 
marriage,  and,  what  is  more,  he  states  his  belief  that 
you  will  not  prove  indifferent  to  his  suit  This  I 
can  not  tell,  but  as  he  begs  me, — reasonably  enough, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  his  mission  necessitates  his  ex- 


332  THE  CORTLANDTS 

peditious  return  to  Italy, — to  allow  him  to  approach 
you  at  once,  you  may  confirm  or  deny  it  in  person. 

I  have,  at  his  suggestion,  made  inquiries  in  regard 
to  him  at  the  Italian  Embassy  here.  I  find  him  to  be 
a  member  of  an  important  Italian  family,  and  per- 
sonally a  favorite  of  the  king.  He  should,  I  am  told, 
go  far.  He  has  a  palazzo  in  Rome,  at  present  unten- 
able for  a  supporter  of  Victor  Emmanuel,  a  more 
modest  establishment  in  Milan,  and  an  ancient  country 
place  in  Piedmont,  where  he  was  born. 

I  can  hear  only  good  things  of  him,  but  you  must 
remember  that  he  is  a  native  of  Europe,  where  the 
customs  and  the  ideals  differ  greatly  from  those  you 
have  known.  However,  if  your  feelings  for  him  are 
of  a  sufficiently  affectionate  nature,  these  differences 
may  be  overcome.  There  are  examples  of  such  happy 
marriages.  I  am  greatly  hampered  by  not  being  able 
to  talk  with  you,  and  by  your  lack  of  frankness  when 
writing  me.  All  depends  on  your  feelings  toward  this 
young  man.  I  am  prepared  to  receive  him  as  your 
husband  if  that  is  your  wish,  and  I  must  tell  you  that 
you  would  be  making  what  the  world  calls  a  brilliant 
marriage. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  what  your  permanent  residence 
in  Italy  would  mean  to  me.  I  am,  you  must  re- 
member, an  old  man,  with  my  life  behind  me.  You 
must  not  consider  me  in  making  your  decision,  except, 
I  beg  of  you,  to  this  extent.  Count  Avezzana  must 
soon  return  to  Italy,  and  he  asks,  if  you  accede  to  his 
proposal,  that  you  will  marry  him  before  he  leaves 
America  and  accompany  him  to  Europe.  I  have  his 
letter  here — "In  the  present  deplorably  disturbed  con- 
ditions in  my  country  it  may  well  be  years  before  I 
can  again  return  to  North  America.  Until  Italy  is 
united  my  place  is  there."  It  seems,  therefore,  my 


A  PROPOSAL  333 

dear  Ann,  that  if  you  are  to  marry  this  young  man, 
it  must  be  done  speedily,  and  in  that  case  it  will  be 
impossible  for  me  to  be  present.  I  find  it  difficult  to 
believe  that  the  ceremony  would  be  legal  without  my 
presence,  but  such  are  the  sad  necessities  of  war. 
My  work  here  is  incomplete,  and  I  have  advices  from 
the  president  begging  me  to  remain  indefinitely,  as  he 
is  kind  enough  to  believe  me  to  be  somewhat  success- 
ful in  my  efforts  to  make  public  opinion  for  the  North- 
ern States.  Therefore,  if  I  may  not  take  part  in  your 
wedding  ceremony,  I  may,  at  least,  share  a  day  or  two 
of  your  honeymoon.  I  shall  await  you  in  Paris  with 
the  liveliest  anticipations. 

My  dear  Ann,  be  sure  to  act  with  deliberation  and 
foresight  to  the  end  that  your  best  happiness  may  be 
preserved.     I  am  writing  to  the  Count  Avezzana,  giv- 
ing him  my  permission  to  pay  you  his  attentions. 
Your  affectionate  uncle, 

HENDRICKS  CORTLANDT. 

For  a  time  after  reading  her  letter  Ann  sat, 
stunned,  without  movement  and  almost  without 
thought.  The  whole  thing  was  too  preposterous  to 
grasp  all  at  once,  and  her  first  feeling  toward  Avez- 
zana was  indignation  at  his  having  so  needlessly 
disturbed  her  guardian. 

"Marriage !"  she  exclaimed  aloud. — "A  stranger  like 
that!"  She  went  to  the  window  to  cool  her  flushed 
face,  and  standing  there  overlooking  the  familiar- 
Square,  she  summoned  back  her  dimming  memories 
of  the  Italian.  Indubitably,  he  was  a  romantic  figure, 
more  darkly  beautiful  than  any  other  man  she  had 
seen,  and  with  something  unknown  and  alien  about 


334  THE  CORTLANDTS 

him.  .  .  .  He  had  been  very  good  to  her;  sh« 
recalled  her  awakening  in  the  cottage,  with  Avezzana's 
eyes  upon  her,  and  the  subsequent  scene  which  had  so 
filled  her  with  unreasoning  panic,  .  .  .  She  re- 
membered him  on  the  train,  elaborate  in  his  efforts  to 
save  her  from  gossip.  .  .  .  He  had  asked  for  her 
guardian's  address.  Now  she  knew  why.  .  .  . 
How  fantastic  it  all  was !  .  .  .  He  had  been  brave, 
too,  there  in  the  midst  of  the  fighting.  .  .  .  And 
Italy  was  a  most  lovely  place, — Densley  had  said  it 
was  a  paradise  for  lovers.  .  .  .  This  was  what 
Densley  would  have  wished  for  her, — a  marriage  with 
a  romantic  foreigner.  ...  It  was  strange  how 
remote  her  association  with  Densley  seemed;  only  an 
'irradicable  impression  of  his  sophisticated  view-point 
remained,  and  a  gentle  regret.  ...  It  might  have 
been  years  ago  that  he  had  died.  .  .  .  And  yet, 
she  thought,  if  she  should  consider  Avezzana  at  all,  it 
would  be  because  of  Densley.  .  .  .  Life  was  a 
queer  business.  .  .  .  How  could  any  one  want  to 
marry  her  without  knowing  more  of  her?  .  .  . 
How  did  it  go?  .  .  .  "For  better — for  worse. 
.  .  .  Until  death  does  us  part?"  .  .  .  Still,  it 
was  nice  of  him.  ...  A  countess,  too.  Glamour 
stole  over  her  senses,  and  yet  she  was  sad;  she  did 
not  know  why.  .  .  .  Her  guardian's  acceptance 
of  the  idea  of  her  leaving  him  depressed  her.  .  .  . 
It  made  her  feel  homeless  and  miserable.  .  .  .  To 
her  amazement,  tears  suddenly  brimmed  in  her  eyes. 
She  welcomed  them  in  a  luxury  of  emotionalism,  and 


A  PROPOSAL  335 

flung  herself  face  down  across  her  bed.     .     .     .     Sobs 
shook  her,  powerfully. 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  sharp  knock  on  her  door, 
and  Mrs.  Cortlandt's  flurried  voice  inquiring,  "Ann, 
who  in  the  world  is  a  Count  Guido  Mario  Avezzana 
inquiring  for  me, — and  for  you?" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

COURTSHIP 

ANN  stayed  her  sobs,  and  called  tremulously, 
"Count  Avezzana?  Down-stairs?" 

"Yes,  in  the  library.     Who  is  he?" 

"He  was  at  Gettysburg,  Aunt  Emily." 

"You  must  come  down  at  once." 

"I  can't.  It  will  take  me  a  long  time!  You  go 
and  see  him,  Aunt  Emily,  do." 

"He  asked  for  me,  Ann. — Naturally  I  shall  go  down. 
—But  hurry." 

Ann  found  it  impossible  to  obey  this  command.  She 
wanted  very  much  to  see  Avezzana; — she  was  breath- 
less at  the  thought  of  him  below,  waiting.  She  was 
all  on  fire  with  curiosity  as  to  what  he  would  do  next, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  wanted  to  look  her  best  when 
she  confronted  him,  lest  he  should  regret  his  amazing 
overtures.  She  ran  to  the  glass  and  scrutinized  her 
face ;  although  she  had  only  just  begun  to  cry,  her  eyes 
were  undoubtedly  rather  red.  "I  look  even  worse  than 
I  did  in  the  train,"  she  murmured  discontentedly,  as 
she  poured  water  into  her  wash  basin.  The  cold  was 
delicious  to  her  flushed  face ;  no  one  would  ever  know 
she  had  been  crying,  she  decided,  when  she  looked  in 
the  mirror  again,  after  prolonged  applications.  She 
lingered  over  her  dresses,  too,  unable  to  decide  which 
one  she  should  put  on;  she  was  determined  that  it 

336 


COURTSHIP  337 

should  not  be  black,  and  finally  she  selected  an  apricot 
green  tissue,  which  she  had  worn  in  the  spring  before 
she  put  on  her  mourning.  In  it  she  had  a  young  and 
vernal  look  that  was  undoubtedly  charming.  She  had  a 
heartening  conviction  of  it,  herself. 

As  she  stole  down  the  stairs  she  could  hear  alter- 
nately Mrs.  Cortlandt's  high  voice,  and  Avezzana's 
lower,  more  emotional  tones.  "What  are  they  talking 
about  ?"  Ann  wondered,  pausing  midway  on  the  steps. 
She  thought  that  they  seemed  to  be  getting  on  very 
well  without  her,  so  when  she  went  down  the  long 
library  to  greet  the  young  Italian  officer  she  assumed 
a  little  air  of  indifference.  Avezzana  sprang  to  his 
feet  at  her  coming  and  regarded  her  with  intent  eyes. 
He  was  more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  his  uniform 
was  more  splendid  than  the  one  he  had  worn  on  the 
field.  Under  his  look  she  was  inclined  to  be  some- 
what uncomfortable,  and  when  he  bent  to  kiss  her 
hand  she  flinched  visibly.  It  was  impossible  for  her 
to  accept  this  salutation  casually,  and  she  felt  self- 
consciously that  Mrs.  Cortlandt's  massive  presence  was 
not  the  place  for  an  amorous  interlude.  She  sent  her 
a  lightning  glance  under  her  eyelashes,  but  even  before 
Avezzana's  head  was  lifted,  Ann  could  see  that  Mrs. 
Cortlandt  had  preserved  an  air  of  worldly  complacence. 

"Well,"  she  thought  unbidden,  "I'll  have  to  get 
used  to  it,  if  I  am  going  to  live  in  Italy." 

After  that  they  conversed.  The  three  of  them  sat 
very  upright  in  their  chairs  and  went  politely  through 
the  topics  of  the  day.  Ann  was  amazed  at  herself; 


338  THE  CORTLANDTS 

she  had  not  dreamed  she  had  such  reserves  of  conven- 
tionalities. It  seemed  to  her  that  hours  passed  before 
Avezzana  rose  smartly  to  his  feet,  bowed,  implanted  a 
kiss  first  on  the  exact  diametrical  back  of  Mrs.  Cort- 
landt's  hand,  and  then  on  hers,  and  prepared  to  take 
his  departure.  On  his  way  to  the  door  he  paused,  as 
though  struck  with  a  sudden  thought. 

"The  ambassador  from  my  country  will  be  in  this 
city  on  Wednesday.  Would  it,  perhaps,  prove  amus- 
ing to  you,  Signora,  to  meet  him?  If  so  I  will 
arrange  a  little  dinner  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel, 
where  I  am  stopping  for,  it  is  possible,  a  fortnight." 

"A  fortnight,"  thought  Ann,  with  a  flashing  grin. 
"He  doesn't  think  it  will  take  very  long."  However,  an 
ambassador;  that  was  something! 

She  rejoined  the  conversation  to  hear  Mrs.  Cort- 
landt  accepting  effusively  for  herself,  Ann  and  Fanny. 
"You  are  stopping  at  the  hotel ;"  she  continued.  "You 
are,  I  have  no  doubt,  comfortable  there.  We  are  very 
proud  of  the  Fifth  Avenue,  but  after  all, — a  hotel!" 
She  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders  scornfully.  "It 
would  give  me  great  pleasure  if  you  would  take  dinner 
with  us  on  Sunday.  I  am  only  sorry  that  Mr.  Cort- 
landt  is  not  here  to  make  you  welcome."  Avezzana 
accepted  with  every  symptom  of  decorous  delight,  and 
took  his  departure  without  more  than  a  glance  at  Ann. 

It  was  all  entirely  incomprehensible;  had  any  one 
except  her  guardian  been  involved,  she  would  have 
thought  the  whole  thing  a  gigantic  hoax.  Mrs.  Cort- 
landt,  however,  was  decidedly  impressed. 


COURTSHIP  339 

"Whatever  he  sees  in  you,  Ann,  I  can  not  imagine," 
she  confided  to  the  girl.  "He  is  a  charming  young 
man.  Such  beautiful  manners!  Such  delightful 
breeding !"  Without  going  into  it  further  Ann  under- 
stood that  Mrs.  Cortlandt  had  been  informed  of 
Avezzana's  intentions. 

Fanny  was  greatly  excited  at  the  prospect  of  meet- 
ing a  genuine  Italian  count,  for,  in  the  'sixties,  titles 
were  a  novelty  in  New  York.  She  asked  Ann  a  great 
many  questions  about  him,  to  which  that  young  woman 
replied  dryly,  "Oh,  he  is  just  a  man,  Fanny,  like  other 
men, — blacker,  perhaps." 

The  Theodore  Renneslyers  came  to  the  ceremonious 
mid-Sunday  dinner,  miraculously  reconciled  to  Ann. 
Mrs.  Renneslyer  had  not  spoken  to  her  since  she  had 
jilted  Hendricks,  and  his  father,  on  the  one  or  two 
occasions  when  the  girl  had  seen  him,  had  been  so 
filled  with  kindly  embarrassment  in  her  company,  that 
she  had  minded  it  more  than  his  wife's  icy  dis- 
pleasure. She  wondered  what  sort  of  a  meal  they 
would  have,  all  together  with  Avezzana,  arid  wished 
nervously  that  she  might  be  excluded  from  it,  as  she 
had  been  in  the  rebellious  days  of  her  childhood.  To 
her  amazement,  when  Mrs.  Renneslyer  came  in,  just 
on  the  heels  of  the  young  Italian,  she  was  full  of  a 
pleasing,  if  shallow,  affection  toward  her;  and  her 
husband  had  returned  gaily  to  his  old  lively  comrade- 
ship. It  was  as  though  nothing  had  happened  to  dis- 
credit her  with  them. 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  had  bought  herself  new  dresses  on 


340  THE  CORTLANDTS 

abandoning  her  mourning,  and  she  seemed,  on  this 
bright  September  afternoon,  to  have  returned  miracu- 
lously to  her  youth.  She  wore  a  filmy  mauve  frock, 
covered  with  frothy  little  ruffles  of  white  lace,  and  a 
purple  bonnet  with  pansies  on  the  wide  brim,  which 
poked  forward  over  her  vivacious  face.  Her  waist 
was  perhaps  a  little  thicker  and  her  cheeks  a  trifle 
pinker  than  they  had  been  on  the  day,  so  long  ago, 
when  Ann  had  first  seen  her,  and  if  one  were  disagree- 
able enough  to  look  for  them,  one  might  possibly  find, 
in  the  shadow  of  her  hat  brim,  a  network  of  fine 
wrinkles  about  the  corners  of  her  pretty  eyes,  but  her 
throat  and  her  hands  were  as  white  as  ever,  while  the 
glossy  ringlets  that  clustered  under  the  wreath  of 
pansies  on  her  hat  were  extraordinarily  veracious. 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  had  asked  no  one  else  to  dinner. 
"Only  the  family/'  she  said  archly  to  Avezzana,  and 
he  had  responded  with  a  grave  courtesy  which  Ann 
thought  made  Mrs.  William  seem  bourgeois.  The  talk 
at  the  dinner  was,  however,  quite  brilliant. 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  had  been  to  Italy  before  her  mar- 
riage. "How  can  you  bear  to  leave  so  beautiful  a 
place?"  she  demanded  oratorically.  "It  was  in  the 
spring  when  I  was  there,  and  there  were  roses  every- 
where,— everywhere  I  assure  you,  Ann, — and  purple 
flowers,  great  masses  of  them,  I  forget  their  name — 

"Bogomvelia,"  Avezzana  affirmed,  smiling. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  So  sweet!  Of  course  I  was  there 
long  before  any  one  had  heard  of  Garibaldi.  I  am 
quite  an  old  woman,  you  see !  I  went  down  to  Rome 


COURTSHIP  341 

and  was  presented  to  the  Pope.  I  had  to  wear  a  black 
veil  on  my  head,  Fanny;  it  was  really  quite  becoming, 
and  the  Pope  was  very  sweet  to  me, — very.  Oh,  yes, 
I  loved  Rome!  I  was  a  great  success  there,  too.  I 
often  wonder,  Theodore,  that  I  ever  came  back  to  New 
York  to  marry  you.  There  was  such  an  attractive 
man  I  met  there!  I  wonder,  Count  Avezzana,  if  by 
any  chance  you  knew  him?  Of  course  by  this  time 
he  is  probably  a  grandfather!"  And  then  began  a 
long  cataloguing  of  possible  acquaintances,  in  which 
Avezzana  engaged  himself  vivaciously. 

Ann  wondered  if  the  Italian  were  really  amused 
by  it.  It  was  impossible  to  tell,  when  watching  him 
from  across  the  table.  Now  and  then  he  glanced  up, 
and  his  black  eyes  dashed  with  her  gray  ones, 
but  there  was  nothing  personal,  nothing  demanding, 
in  his  look ;  the  man  she  had  known  in  the  little  house 
at  Gettysburg  had  vanished  so  completely  that  she 
thought  her  memory  must  have  tricked  her  in  regard 
to  him.  As  for  her  guardian's  letter, — she  could  only 
believe  that  Avezzana  had,  by  this  time,  changed  his 
mind  in  regard  to  her,  for  he  had  made  no  effort  to 
arrange  for  a  glimpse  of  her  between  the  Thursday 
of  his  call  and  Sunday.  In  the  drawing-room  after 
dinner,  however,  he  asked  her,  choosing  a  moment 
when  she  was  protected  by  the  presence  of  both  the 
aunts,  if  it  would  be  a  proper  thing  for  him  to  do  to 
ask  her  to  ride  with  him  one  afternoon. 

"Quite,  I  should  think,"  Ann  said  dryly. 

Mrs.  Renneslyer  added  smoothly,  "In  New  York, 


342  THE  CORTLANDTS 

of  course,  we  are  not  so  rigid  as  you  are  in  Europe; 
young  girls  do  many  things  I  would  prefer  a  daugh- 
ter of  mine  didn't.  But  you  have  my  permission,  Ann, 
to  ride  with  Count  Avezzana." 

Ann  grinned  a  little  at  that;  then  she  recalled  her 
last  ride  with  the  Italian,  and  a  slow  flush  burned  up 
in  her  cheeks,  for  the  elaborate  secrecy  with  which  he 
surrounded  that  episode  was  making  her  self-conscious. 
It  was  arranged  that  they  would  go  on  the  afternoon 
before  the  count's  dinner  for  the  Italian  ambassador, 
but  at  noon  of  that  day  the  heat  broke  in  a  sharp 
thunder  squall  and  a  flood  of  rain,  so  that  riding  was 
out  of  the  question;  Ann  had  an  odd  sense  of  relief  at 
postponing  the  tete-a-tete. 

In  the  evening  they  all  wore  their  best  clothes; 
when  Mrs.  William,  Fanny  and  Ann  drove  through  the 
rain  in  the  big  Cortlandt  carriage,  it  could  scarcely 
accommodate  their  flamboyant  skirts.  Ann  was  in 
white,  Fanny  in  pink,  and  Mrs.  Cortlandt  in  plum 
color.  The  older  woman  talked  all  the  way  of  the 
charms  of  their  young  host;  his  good  looks,  his  bril- 
liancy and  his  fine  manners.  Ann  wondered  what  she 
would  be  saying  if  she  knew  of  the  night  in  the  little 
cottage  at  Gettysburg. 

"Nothing  against  him,"  she  thought  cynically,  "but 
probably  a  great  deal  against  me!" 

The  dinner  was  a  most  impressive  occasion.  Avez- 
zana had  engaged  a  private  dining-room  in  his  hotel, 
and  had  decorated  the  table  lavishly  with  flowers, 


COURTSHIP  343 

after  the  Italian  fashion.  He  had  secured  distin- 
guished company  to  meet  his  ambassador ;  a  general  in 
the  Northern  Army,  whom  he  had  met  at  Gettysburg, 
an  ex-minister  to  Italy  from  Wilmington,  Delaware, 
and  an  Italian  capitalist  from  Chicago, — a  squat,  fat, 
swarthy  man,  who,  when  he  talked  at  all,  talked  vol- 
ubly of  the  possibilities  of  the  fruit  trade  in  America. 
The  ambassador  proved  to  be  delightful.  He  was  a 
fine-looking  old  man,  with  a  white  imperial  and  mus- 
tache, and  sharp  black  eyes  with  long,  fierce,  white 
brows  over  them,  which  moved  up  and  down  franti- 
cally when  he  talked.  Ann  liked  him  at  once ;  it  would 
have  been  impossible  not  to  have  done  so,  for  he  im- 
mediately set  about  making  himself  pleasant,  and  she 
was  by  no  means  proof  against  such  flattering  atten- 
tion. She  sat  on  his  right,  for  Avezzana  had  placed  the 
aunts  on  either  side  of  him,  and  she  found  herself  de- 
voting most  of  the  evening  to  a  discussion  of  her  host. 

"A  charming  boy,"  the  ambassador  said,  smiling 
indulgently  across  the  table  at  Avezzana.  "I  knew  his 
father  well,  and  his  mother.  Ah — une  bella  Signora, 
Signorina,  and  how  she  will  enjoy  you,  so  fresh,  so 
naive,  so  American !"  His  English  was  extraordinarily 
fluent.  "My  young  friend  over  there  has  a  great  life 
before  him.  It  will  not  be  long,  now,  when  my  king 
will  have  a  united  Italy ;  there  will  be  no  more  fighting, 
— no  more  wars.  The  young  Guido  then  will  be  free 
for  politics,  and  he  will  go  far." 

Ann  at  this  juncture  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  divert 


344  THE  CORTLANDTS 

the  conversation  into  more  abstract  channels,  but  the 
ambassador  would  have  none  of  it.  "His  family 
jewels!"  he  exclaimed,  apropos  of  nothing,  "such 
pearls !  But  pearls  are  too  dull  for  you.  I  have  seen 
his  grandmother's  diamond  earrings,  which  wait  for 
Avezzana's  bride; — there  is  a  tiara,  too."  His  glance 
traveled  to  the  top  of  Ann's  shining  head  and  rested 
there  until  she  felt  uncomfortably  naked;  she  had 
never  seen  a  tiara,  to  be  sure,  but  her  instinct  told  her 
the  place  for  one.  "And  his  houses.  Do  you  like  the 
country,  Signorina?" 

"Ye-es,"  said  Ann.  "Pretty  well."  She  had  in  mind 
the  little  white  farm-house  in  Milton  Center. 

"Ah,  until  you  have  seen  Piedmont  you  have  not 
seen  the  country!  A  beautiful  old  castle,  Signorina, 
stone  everywhere,  inside  and  out;  therefore,  even  in 
midsummer,  you  have  never  the  heat  like  this.  Such 
gardens!  Such  flowers!  Such  fruits!  In  America 
you  have  no  idea  of  fruits — in  spite  of  what  our  friend 
yonder  is  at  this  moment  engaged  in  saying,  by  way 
of  endearing  himself  to  your  so  charming  aunt,  Mrs. 
Renneslyer.  .  .  .  And  the  moonlight  on  the  ter- 
race on  a  May  night,  Signorina, — even  your  cold 
American  heart  could  not  withstand  that !" 

"What  does  one  do  in  the  country  in  Italy?"  Ann 
demanded  lucidly. 

"There  is  hunting,  my  dear  young  lady.  You  should 
see  the  Count  Avezzana  returning  from  the  chase — 

Ann  interrupted  him  ruthlessly,  quite  regardless  of 


COURTSHIP  345 

the  fact  that  he  was  an  ambassador.  "No,  I  mean 
what  do  the  women  do  ?" 

The  ambassadorial  eyebrows  flew  up  and  down  with 
extraordinary  rapidity.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "the  ladies! 
Our  sunlight,  Signorina!  To  sit  in  it  is  Heaven! 
The  ladies  have  always  a  parasol  of  some  beautiful 
color ;  they  make  pictures,  so,  which  a  man  remembers. 
They  gather  the  flowers,  too,  and  instruct  the  gardeners 
as  to  the  fruits,  and  of  course,  Signorina,  they  talk, 
in  more  languages,  perhaps,  than  in  this,  your  country, 
but  the  context  is  the  same, — for  our  ladies  are  no 
different  in  that  respect  from  ladies  all  over  the  world." 
He  laughed,  secure  in  the  humor  of  his  little  joke,  and 
added,  "And  of  course  they  have  their  devotions, — 
their  charities." 

"In  the  cities,"  Ann  continued  definitely,  "what  do 
they  do  there?" 

The  ambassador  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  ex- 
panded his  white  shirt-front  genially.  "Per  Bacco! — 
such  delightful  lives!  Not  perhaps  so  energetic  as  this 
of  yours,  in  this  so  charming  country,  but  always 
suave,  always  feminine,  you  understand.  It  is  the  cus- 
tom in  the  cities  of  my  country  to  drive  in  the  after- 
noon,— in  Roma,  on  the  Corso,  and,  in  Firenze,  in  the 
Cassine;  the  ladies  use  the  elegant  open  carriage  like 
those  in  which  the  Queen  Victoria  drives.  Also,  be- 
cause our  king  sanctions  it,  it  has  recently  become  the 
custom  for  the  ladies  to  ride  on  the  horse  in  my  coun- 
try, as  they  do  in  England, — but,  you  understand,  with 


346  THE  CORTLANDTS 

somewhat  less  freedom.  And  there  are  balls, — soirees, 
— the  opera, — all  those  entertainments  which  one  finds 
in  capitals, — and  also,  naturally,  they  have  their  devo- 
tions,— their  charities." 

Ann  said  nothing  in  response  to  this.  She  was 
wondering  if  the  Italian  ladies  liked  it,  living  cushioned 
lives  like  that  After  all,  a  day  had  twenty-four  hours : 
the  ambassador's  sketch  left  gaps  her  imagination 
could  not  fill.  When  she  aroused  herself  to  listen,  her 
neighbor  was  off  again  on  the  possessions  of  the  Avez- 
zanas.  This  time  it  was  the  house  in  Milan  he  was 
describing.  "Real  Luini  frescoes  on  the  old  plaster 
wall  of  the  court,  Signorina,  and  a  Perugino  Madonna, 
finer,  it  is  said,  than  any  example  in  the  Louvre. 
.  .  .  Great  treasures,  Signorina,  a  great  family!" 
Almost,  Ann  thought,  he  was  saying  to  her,  "A  great 
opportunity." 

When  the  ladies  were  shawling,  Mrs.  Renneslyer 
murmured  to  Ann  softly,  "You  are  a  sly  puss,  my 
dear,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  my  poor  boy  could  not 
carry  the  day  against  such  a  rival." 

She  swept  out  before  Ann  could  defend  herself,  but 
on  second  thought  the  girl  decided  it  was  perhaps  as 
well  she  had  not  had  the  occasion  to  explain  to  Hen- 
dricks'  mother  that  she  had  never  loved  her  son. 

The  dinner  made  a  great  difference  in  the  attitude  of 
the  Cortlandts  toward  her,  there  was  no  question  about 
that.  Mrs.  Renneslyer  awarded  her  a  reluctant  re- 
spect, while  Mrs.  William  deferred  to  her  as  though 
she  were  already  one  of  the  magnificent  Avezzanas 


COURTSHIP  347 

about  whom  the  Italian  ambassador  had  talked.  As 
a  result,  Ann's  life  was  vastly  more  comfortable. 
Fanny  regarded  her  with  dazzled  eyes;  she  turned 
suddenly  shy;  and  was  much  too  timid  to  discuss  the 
possibilities  of  a  great  marriage.  As  for  the  girl  her- 
self, she  could  not  help  enjoying  the  extraordinary  sit- 
uation in  which  she  found  herself,  and  her  wonderment 
as  to  what  Avezzana's  next  move  would  be  became  a 
preoccupation.  She  felt  like  a  woman  in  a  play,  bound 
to  make  expected  responses  to  certain  cues,  but  in  no 
way  a  free  agent.  It  was  evident  that  Avezzana  con- 
sidered the  dinner  a  definite  step  in  his  courtship,  for 
every  day,  following  that  event,  he  sent  her  flowers; 
they  arrived  early  in  the  morning,  fresh  and  untouched 
by  the  September  heat.  In  the  evening  he  came, 
formally,  to  call  on  her  and  Mrs.  William;  it  was  al- 
ways a  repetition  of  his  first  visit;  the  older  woman 
was  invariably  present,  and  the  conversation  flowed  in 
shallow  courses,  so  that  Ann  sometimes  found  herself 
swallowing  yawns.  Avezzana's  form  of  courtship 
was  new  and  exciting,  but  she  came  reluctantly  to  the 
conclusion  that  she  did  not  like  him,  particularly.  It 
was  all  very  perplexing,  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  a 
fascinating  game. 

When  the  proposal  finally  came  she  was,  for  all  her 
anticipation  of  it,  caught  unaware.  The  Italian  came 
to  dinner  in  Washington  Square,  and  found  her  alone 
in  the  library.  It  was  obvious  that  the  others  would  be 
there  in  a  moment,  and  Ann  had  no  expectation  of 
anything  decisive  impending,  until,  contrary  to  his 


348  THE  CORTLANDTS 

habit,  Avezzana  came  close  to  her  chair,  and  stood 
leaning  over  her  with  an  air  of  affectionate  proprietor- 
ship. 

"It  is  coming !"  Ann  thought,  staggered,  and  she  be- 
gan to  talk  rapidly  of  the  extraordinary  heat  of  the 
night.  He  brushed  her  simple  defenses  aside  with  a 
romantic  gesture  of  his  hand. 

"I  have  something  to  ask  of  you." 

"No.  Please  don't  ask  me  anything,  Count  Avez- 
zana." She  knew,  as  she  spoke,  that  he  took  her  com- 
punction for  mere  maidenly  confusion. 

He  smiled,  and  surprised  her.  "Have  I  your  per- 
mission to  call  you  by  your  name  ?  To  call  you  Ann  ?" 

In  her  relief,  she  almost  laughed.  "Oh, — that  ?  Yes, 
of  course,  if  you  like." 

This  permisson  encouraged  Avezzana  to  an  extra- 
ordinary extent  He  leaned  closer  to  her,  and  the  scent 
of  his  pomade  enveloped  her  with  an  odor  entirely 
different  from  that  used  by  American  men.  "Grazia, 
mia  Bella.  You  know,  perhaps,  why  I  have  remain 
so  long  in  your  city?" 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  liked  it,"  Ann  said  nerv- 
ously. "I  do." 

Avezzana  shrugged  one  of  his  slim  shoulders.  "Oh, 
it  is  very  well,"  he  said,  "but  when  you  will  see  the 
cities  of  my  country, — Milano,  Venezia— 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Ann  interrupted  him  somewhat 
dryly,  "your  ambassador  told  me  all  about  them." 

Avezzana  smiled  nonchalantly.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "he 
is  a  good  fellow.  It  was  my  uncle  got  him  his  appoint- 


COURTSHIP  349 

ment.  .  .  .  No,  I  have  remain  so  long  in  your 
city  because  of  you,  my  Ann.  You  must  have, — what 
is  it  you  say? — guessed,  that  it  was  my  intention  to 
ask  you  to  do  me  the  honor  to  be  my  wife.  Ever  since 
that  night  at  Gettysburg" — he  broke  off,  and  for  a 
moment  his  deep  look  flickered  away — "but  we  will  not 
talk  of  that, — not  now.  It  is  only  that  since  then  I 
have  the  wish  but  for  one  thing."  He  slipped  his  hand 
over  Ann's  at  this  juncture.  It  was  a  small  hand, 
rather  like  a  woman's,  she  thought,  as  she  yielded  her 
own  to  its  tight  clasp.  "Could  you  care  for  me?"  he 
asked,  smiling  brilliantly  down  upon  her;  his  assur- 
ance was  contagious. 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  Ann  said  drearily;  at  the  time 
it  seemed  to  her  unfortunate. 

"I  will  teach  you,"  Avezzana  proclaimed  joyfully. 
It  was  exactly  as  though  she  had  not  spoken.  "You 
must  marry  me,  my  Ann.  You  must  come  with  me, — 
to  Italia." 

Ann  continued  to  look  at  him,  half  hypnotized.  "I 
think  my  uncle  would  like  it,"  she  murmured. 

"But  yes,— it  is  a  good  alliance.  The  only  question 
is  this,  is  it  your  wish?" 

Her  wish?  She  almost  yielded  to  his  power  of 
suggestion.  .  .  .  Everything  seemed  to  be  push- 
ing her  toward  this  marriage.  .  .  .  Nineteen 
years  old.  .  .  .  High  time.  .  .  .  Every  one 
would  be  pleased.  .  .  .  She  had  only  to  nod  her 
head.  .  .  .  And  there  was  Italy,  even  if  it  were 
only  half  as  nice  as  the  ambassador  had  said. 


350  THE  CORTLANDTS 

She  smiled  rather  miserably  at  Avezzana,  and  heard 
a  tiny  voice  somewhere  saying,  "I  really  can't. — I'm 
sorry."  She  half  regretted  the  words  as  soon  as  she 
knew  them  to  be  hers,  and  yet  she  did  not  recall 
them. 

Avezzana  flushed  deeply,  and  for  an  instant  the  vivid 
passion  of  his  nature  flashed  out,  as  it  had  at  Gettys- 
burg. "I  must  have  you!"  he  said;  for  the  first  time 
he  was  loud  and  uncontrolled.  "I  will  not  give  you 
up.  How  is  it  you  can  think  to  refuse  me,  after  that 
night  near  the  battle?" 

"That  is  all  past,"  Ann  said.  "It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  my  marrying  you,  or  not" 

With  a  violent  effort,  Avezzana  regained  his  smooth 
control  of  himself;  he  lifted  her  passive  hand  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  it,  just  as  he  did  every  day  when 
he  came  and  went. 

"Please,"  he  begged,  "give  me  a  little  time.  Do  not 
yet  make  up  your  mind  against  me,  I  beg  yoa" 

"Very  well,"  Ann  conceded  grudgingly.  "But  don't 
be  too  hopeful." 

That  night,  before  he  left,  Avezzana  had  a  word 
alone  with  Mrs.  Cortlandt,  and  the  next  afternoon  Ann 
came  in  to  find  the  two  closeted  in  the  library.  She 
was  only  too  glad  to  steal  past  the  door  to  the  stair, 
filled  with  an  exhilarating  sense  of  escape. 

She  had  been  in  her  room  but  a  few  moments, 
when  Mrs.  Cortlandt  rapped  portentously  at  her  door. 
She  came  in,  Ann  thought,  like  a  ship  under  full  sail. 
"Well,  miss,"  she  flung  at  the  girl,  with  a  complete 


COURTSHIP  351 

return  of  her  old  manner,  "and  so,  having  disgraced 
the  family  which  has  been  your  benefactor,  you  have 
the  insolence  to  refuse  to  marry  the  man  who  is  willing 
to  clear  your  good  name!"  Even  in  her  rising  tide 
of  anger  Ann  said  to  herself  that  Mrs.  Cortlandt  had 
undoubtedly  been  rehearsing  that  speech  during  her 
laborious  progress  up  the  stairs.  It  was  a  flight  of, 
oratory  ordinarily  beyond  her. 

"So,"  she  said  indignantly,  "he  has  told  you." 

"And  high  time  he  did!  What  your  guardian  will 
think  of  such  behavior — !  All  night!  Alone!" 

"No."  Ann  corrected  her  coldly.  "Not  alone.  With! 
Count  Avezzana." 

"Have  you  no  sense  of  shame  ?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of." 

"No  sense  of  shame  at  all!"  Mrs.  Cortlandt  pro- 
claimed to  the  four  walls  of  the  girl's  room. 

"I  can't  see  why  he  had  to  tell  you  about  it,  now 
everything  is  all  over." 

"Over?  Nonsense!  Count  Avezzana  is  willing  to 
marry  you,  Ann." 

"But  I'm  not  willing  to  marry  him." 

"Of  course  you  will  marry  him.  Don't  be  ridicu- 
lous! Under  any  conditions,  it  is  an  opportunity 
vastly  beyond  your  deserts; — a  contessa!" 

"But  I  don't  love  him,  Aunt  Emily." 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  looked  at  her,  exasperation  written  ^ 
plainly  on  her  face.     "You  have  compromised  your- 
self with  him,"  she  said.    "You  might  just  as  well  love 
him.    You  certainly  will  have  to  marry  him." 


352  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Do  you  think  uncle  would  agree  with  you  in  that  ?" 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  paused;  for  a  moment  she  was  stag- 
gered. "I  dare  say,"  she  said  at  length,  "that  your 
guardian  is  sufficiently  infatuated  with  you  to  excuse 
even  this  impropriety,  but  if  you  have  ordinary  grati- 
tude for  all  his  kindness,  you  will  marry  Count  Avez- 
zana,  and  save  him  the  embarrassment  of  explaining 
your  escapade." 

Ann's  eyes  widened.  She  had  not  thought  of  that 
aspect  of  her  sorry  case.  There  was  no  doubt  but 
that  Mr.  Cortlandt  would  come  home  to  meet  gossip 
about  her;  now  that  Mrs.  William  knew  of  her  adven- 
ture, it  would  soon  be  all  over  New  York.  "I  wish 
you  would  let  me  explain  it  to  you,"  she  said  weakly. 

Mrs.  Cortlandt  furled  some  of  her  sail,  at  this  con- 
cession. She  seated  herself  majestically,  and  bent  a 
sorrying  look  on  the  culprit.  "Nothing  can  ever  ex- 
plain it,  Ann,"  she  said  heavily.  "There  is  nothing 
for  you  to  do  but  marry  Count  Avezzana." 

"A  man  I  don't  love!" 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!  You  have  been  half  in  love 
with  him  all  along!  .  .  .  Haven't  you?" 

"Yes,  but—" 

"Plenty  of  girls  marry  on  less  than  that.  Half  a 
loaf,  you  know,  is  better  than  no  bread.  He  is  a 
charming  boy, — so  handsome!  So  romantic!  And 
your  guardian  approves  the  match.  I  have  had  a  letter 
from  him  stating  his  wishes  in  regard  to  it." 

"Oh,  may  I  see  it?"  It  seemed  to  Ann  like  a  life 
line  in  drowning  seas. 


COURTSHIP  353 

"Certainly  not,  miss.  .  .  .  This  young  man  is 
everything  you  could  want,  titled,  head  over  heels  in 
love  with  you, — rich,  even.  You  would  be  mad  to 
hesitate,  even  if  you  had  an  alternative."  She  looked 
at  Ann  shrewdly.  "Your  guardian's  choice!  Have 
you  no  gratitude?" 

Suddenly  weariness  engulfed  Ann.  This  angry 
woman  arguing  with  her!  She  wanted  to  be  rid  of 
her  at  any  cost.  .  .  .  She  could  see  years  of 
railing  stretching  out  before  her,  and  innuendo  about 
it,  too;  she  thought,  shivering,  that  nothing  could 
be  worse  than  that.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  true  that 
other  girls  married  without  being  deeply  in  love. 
.  .  .  Her  guardian  wished  the  match.  That,  in  it- 
self, was  enough.  .  .  .  She  amazed  Mrs.  CorU 
landt  by  a  swift  capitulation.  "Very  well,  I'll  marry 
him.  You  can  tell  him  so." 

She  looked  at  the  older  woman  in  open  sneering 
scorn,  as  she  bounced  up  from  her  seat;  Mrs.  Cort- 
landt  smiled,  she  even  kissed  Ann, — a  swift  peck  on  an 
averted  cheek, — murmuring  "Contessa!"  as  she  did 
so. 

Fanny  was  all  aflutter"  over  her  friend's  romantic 
alliance;  the  Renneslyers  were  pleasantly  congratula- 
tory, and  flattered,  too,  and  Avezzana  was  delighted. 
From  the  moment  Mrs.  Cortlandt  conveyed  the  good 
news  to  him  he  bloomed  into  a  happy  conviction  that 
Ann  had  loved  him  all  along, — that  it  was  only 
maidenly  modesty  which  had  prevented  her  admitting 


354  THE  CORTLANDTS 

it.  He  treated  her  with  great  consideration:  he  was 
all  gentle  protection ;  he  was  entirely  controlled.  When 
they  met,  after  Mrs.  Cortlandt's  revelation,  he  kissed 
her  on  her  cheek,  with  a  swift  intake  of  his  breath, 
but  after  that  he  returned  to  the  formal  salute  on  her 
hand.  He  made  no  effort  to  sweep  her  away  from  her 
reluctant  attitude,  and  Ann  was  piqued  by  such  cold 
love-making;  she  recalled  the  passion  of  his  advances 
at  Gettysburg,  and  wondered  both  at  him,  and  the 
civilization  which  prpduced  him.  He  gave  her  an 
ancestral  ring  of  such  magnificent  proportions  that  it 
fairly  staggered  her.  With  it  on  her  hand  she  could 
think  of  nothing  else;  she  could  perform  none  of  the 
ordinary  duties  of  her  life,  and  looking  at  it  in  its 
overpowering  magnificence,  she  understood  why  the 
Italian  ladies  only  picked  flowers  and  sat  in  the  sun. 

From  the  moment  of  her  acceptance,  affairs  seemed 
to  move  along  entirely  without  her  volition.  She 
heard  Mrs.  Cortlandt  and  Avezzana  discussing  an  early 
date  for  the  marriage,  her  trousseau,  wedding  presents, 
and  sailings,  all  at  once.  In  a  half-hour  she  was 
more  nearly  wedded  to  this  stranger  than  she  had  been 
to  Hendricks  in  all  the  years  of  her  engagement,  and 
she  was  aghast  at  such  speed.  She  would,  she  told 
(herself,  marry  Avezzana  as  willingly  as  any  one  else, 
but  she  wanted  to  overcome  her  strange  lassitude,  and 
experiment  with  his  temperament, — to  make  little  emo- 
tional expeditions  against  his  determined  reserve, — 
not  to  sit  prosaically  talking  of  how  sensible  it  would 
be  to  buy  her  dresses  in  Paris,  now  that  she  was  going 


COURTSHIP  355 

directly  there,  and  of  the  number  of  weeks  neces- 
sary to  allow  for  hemstitching  linen.  Mrs.  Cortlandt's 
enthusiasm  swept  her  along  on  its  high  tide,  mute, 
but  already  rebellious. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

MARRIAGE 

ANN  entered  into  her  second  engagement  to  marry 
with  a  firm  determination  to  like  it.  It  was,  she 
thought,  the  best  thing  she  could  do;  she  was  touch- 
ingly  ready  to  be  happy;  she  was  only  too  willing 
to  view  her  lover  with  bemused  eyes.  At  first  this 
was  made  easy  by  the  fervent  congratulations  of  every 
one  she  saw;  she  lived,  for  a  while,  in  an  atmosphere  of 
adulation,  for  when  the  announcement  was  printed  in 
the  papers,  the  future  Contessa  Avezzana  became,  all 
at  once,  an  important  person.  Enthusiastic  acquaint- 
ances stopped  her  on  the  street  to  assure  her  of  the 
good  looks  of  her  count,  and  of  the  romantic  nature  of 
her  engagement  It  was  romantic,  she  told  herself  a 
hundred  times  a  day,  and  she  delighted  in  Guido's  dark 
beauty.  When  she  was  not  with  him,  she  thought  of 
him  with  a  fair  similitude  of  ardor. 

Their  interviews,  however,  were  not  so  satisfactory; 
the  girl  found  them  strangely  baffling.  Avezzana 
brought  to  them  a  sensuous  atmosphere,  it  is  true,  of 
which  Ann  was  tinglingly  conscious,  but  which  served 
only  to  make  more  barren  the  fact  that  she  really 
knew  nothing  about  this  person  she  was  to  marry. 
Hitherto  her  erotic  experiences  had  all  been  of  an  ex- 
ploratory nature,  but  this  man  defeated  all  her  tenta- 

356 


MARRIAGE  357 

tive  efforts  to  pry  into  the  closed  shell  of  his  inner 
personality.  In  the  beginning  his  careful  formality 
amused  the  American  girl;  she  liked  to  tease  him  into 
impulsive  betrayals  of  it,  but  as  the  days  ran  on  she 
had  less  inclination  to  do  so.  Their  talk  was  of  so 
trivial  a  nature  that  she,  too,  grew  formal,  but  with 
the  important  difference  that  hers  was  a  response  to 
an  inner  recoil  rather  than  to  a  complicated  conven- 
tion. 

She  made,  one  day,  an  unfortunate  attempt  to  estab- 
lish companionship.  "Guido,  I  should  like  to  take  you 
over  to  the  hospital.  I  haven't  been  there  since  we 
became  engaged, — I  am  almost  ashamed  to  go, — but 
I  want  you  to  see  where  I've  been  working." 

"You  will  pardon  me,  carissima  mm,  but  I  prefer  to 
forget  those  hospitals.  .  .  .  Here,  in  these  so 
charming  surroundings,  you  are  all  a  young  girl  must 
be.  ...  Beautiful, — without  experience.  .  .  . 
No."  He  reached  out  and  took  her  hand  in  his  as 
carefully  as  though  it  were  made  of  fragile  stuff. 
"My  Ann,  I  have  this  to  suggest — that  you  do  not 
speak  to  my  mother  of  those  hospitals.  .  .  .  She 
would  not  understand." 

"But — there  was  nothing  wrong  in  my  working 
there.  I'm  proud  of  having  done  it;  it  was  my  share 
of  the  war." 

"Si,  carissima,  but  now  all  is  different."  He  kissed 
her  finger  tips,  one  by  one,  with  an  air  of  savoring 
them,  adding,  "Work  is  for  men — non  e  vero?" 

Ann  looked  at  him  curiously.     She  found  his  life 


358  THE  CORTLANDTS 

amazingly  difficult  to  understand;  he  was  like  an  un- 
successful bas-relief ;  she  could  not  imagine  him  in  the 
round.  "What  work  do  you  do,  when  you  are  at 
home?"  she  asked  definitely. 

"I  am  an  officer,"  Avezzana  straightened  impor- 
tanty. 

"But  you  hope  soon  to  have  peace,  in  Italy." 

"Che  e  intelligentel  Peace, — yes,  but  there  remain 
much  duties," 

"What  kind  of  duties?" 

"Drills, — reviews, — but  why  should  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?" 

"You  are  a  woman,*' 

"What  of  it?" 

Avezzana  smiled  deeply  upon  her.  "Some  day  you 
will  know,"  he  murmured. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  evidently  considered  the 
matter  closed,  Ann  persisted.  "Haven't  you  any  work 
to  do,  outside  the  army?" 

"But  yes, — there  is  always  politics." 

"Shall  you  run  for  something  ?    How  exciting !" 

"R-r-run?" 

"Yes,  For  Congress, — or  whatever  you  have,  in 
Italy." 

Avezzana  laughed  at  that,  but  Ann  could  see  that 
he  was  affronted,  too.  "No,  I  shall  not, — what  you 
say? — 'run' for  political  position.  .  .  *  You  would 
better  leave  all  this  to  me,  carissima  mia.  It  is  not 
for  you." 


MARRIAGE  359 

Mutinous  lines  appeared  about  Ann's  mouth.  "Is 
there  nothing  I  can  share  with  you,  then?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"But  yes, — all!  Domestic  lifel  It  is  enough,  mia 
'Bella,  is  it  not?"  He  was  so  radiantly  certain  that  Ann 
forbore  to  question  further.  She  found  herself  un- 
expectedly thinking  of  Peter,  and  the  delightful  feeling 
of  equality  she  had  had  when  talking  with  him.  Her 
eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears;  she  blinked  them  away 
amid  Avezzana's  solicitous  inquiries. 

In  view  of  the  fact  that  they  were  going  immediately 
to  Paris,  Ann's  trousseau  was  fairly  utilitarian.  With 
the  exception  of  a  white  satin  wedding  dress,  trimmed 
with  a  bertha  of  point  lace,  and  waxy  orange  blossoms 
at  the  tiny  pointed  waist,  there  was  nothing  particu- 
larly grand  about  it.  She  had,  of  course,  the  customary 
dozens  of  underwear  and  linen  to  be  expected  from  a 
girl  of  her  position,  but  her  traveling  dresses  were 
comparatively  simple,  and  she  had  only  one  ceremoni- 
ous gown  of  black  velvet,  spangled  with  little  seashells 
of  jet,  in  which  she  looked  much  too  young  for  so 
matronly  a  garment.  She  was  not  appearing  her  best; 
she  was  drearily  conscious  of  that,  and  Mrs.  Rennes- 
lyer  said  so  frankly.  She  explained  that  she  was  tired 
out  from  prolonged  shopping.  The  wedding  loomed 
so  close  that  it  was  necessary  to  do  everything  in  a 
hurry,  and  she  attributed  her  lassitude  to  that,  but  she 
hated  her  dark  circled  eyes,  enormous  in  her  white 
face. 

She  found  it  impossible  to  think  beyond  the  reunion 


360  THE  CORTLANDTS 

with  her  guardian  in  Paris.  The  fact  that  she  was  to 
spend  the  rest  of  her  life  in  Italy  was  unbelievable, 
and  she  let  it  go  at  that.  She  simply  could  not  take 
in  anything  so  incredible.  She  wondered  if  any  other 
girl  was  ever  married  in  this  way,  almost  without  her 
own  volition,  but  she  was  too  tired  and  too  dejected  to 
protest  Instead  she  tried  to  do  exactly  what  was  ex- 
pected of  her  every  day,  and  every  day  a  swift  current 
swept  her  nearer  the  vortex.  The  wedding  invitations 
'were  ordered,  addressed  and  sent  off  by  hand  with  ex- 
traordinary efficiency  and  haste.  Ann  was  dazed  by 
the  speed  which  this  machine  of  her  own  making  at- 
tained. 

Guido  was  a  Catholic,  and  he  explained  casually  to 
Ann  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  join  his 
church.  She  had  no  objections  to  doing  so,  and  Mr. 
Renneslyer's  facetious  remark  that  he  was  afraid  she 
would  not  enjoy  confession  won  only  a  faint  smile 
from  her.  Her  father  must  have  been  a  Catholic,  she 
supposed,  and  one  day  she  slipped  into  a  service  in  a 
near-by  church,  and  found  the  ancient  ritual  beautiful. 
Mrs.  Cortlandt  assured  her,  a  bit  nervously,  that  it 
made  no  difference  what  church  one  belonged  to, 
really,  and  Ann  agreed  with  her  listlessly.  Somehow 
all  this  talk  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  her, 
but  it  did  add  to  her  feeling  of  being  thrust  into  alien 
things.  The  marriage  was  to  be  celebrated  in  the 
Catholic  Cathedral,  and  she  went  up  to  look  it  over, 
late  one  afternoon.  [The  distant  altar  swam  in  the 


MARRIAGE  361 

tremulous  light  of  the  candles,  and  boys  in  robes  were 
moving  mysteriously  about.  Guido  belonged  there,  she 
thought,  a  part  of  all  this  traditional  beauty,  but  she 
felt  like  a  rude  intruder.  She  could  not  imagine  sweep- 
ing her  white  satin  skirts  up  the  long  aisle. 

She  walked  home,  in  the  arid  late  September  heat, 
with  a  curiously  sinking  heart.  She  could  never  re- 
member being  so  spiritless ;  it  frightened  her  to  realize 
it.  ...  Mrs.  Cortlandt  had  said  that  it  was  to  be 
expected,  in  a  girl  about  to  marry,  but  Ann  wondered 
if  she  were  correct  in  this  assumption.  .  .  « 
Surely,  in  that  case,  writers  of  fiction  were  most  cul- 
pable in  giving  so  romantic  a  glow  to  nuptials.  .  .  . 
Guido  was  happy  enough;  she  would  have  hated  it 
had  he  been  as  depressed  as  she  was.  Perhaps,  she 
thought,  she  owed  it  to  him  to  tell  him  how  lacking  in 
enthusiasm  she  was.  At  the  thought  her  heart  leapt 
up;  she  would  tell  him,  and  possibly  he  might  dispel 
this  unnatural  dejection.  She  found  him  waiting  when 
she  reached  home. 

"Where  have  you  been,  mia  Bella?"  he  demanded 
gaily. 

As  Ann  looked  at  his  radiant  happiness,  a  preverse 
desire  to  shatter  it  arose  within  her.  "I've  been  to 
take  a  look  at  your  church,"  she  said  coldly. 

"My  church?  Per  Bacco, — our  church,  carissima, 
— is  it  not?" 

"Not  yet." 

"But  so  soon !    In  nine  days  we  share  all  things." 


362  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Shall  we?    Shall  we  really,  Guido?" 

"You  ask  me  that!"  His  devastation  at  her  doubt 
was  thorough  but  theatrical. 

Ann  persisted,  in  spite  of  him.  "We  don't  share 
anything  at  all,  now.  .  .  .  There  are  things  I 
can  not  even  talk  to  you  about.  ...  It  makes  me 
very  unhappy."  She  broke  off,  in  a  panic  lest  tears 
should  make  her  protest  ineffective. 

"What  things?" 

"Well, — that  night  at  Gettysburg,  for  instance." 

"No,  you  are  right,  not  that." 

"But  why  not?  It  is  where  you  fell  in  love  with 
me. — You  told  me  so,  that  morning,  before  you  left 
Don't  you  remember?  It  is  a  part  of  us, — that  night. 
.  .  .  It  is  ridiculous  to  act  as  if  it  hadn't  hap- 
pened!" 

"In  my  code,  it  is  considered  wise  to  ignore  certain 
things,  when  one  makes  conversation  with  a  young 
lady." 

"But  we  are  going  to  be  married, — in  nine  days! 
We  aren't  strangers.  There  should  be  nothing  you 
can  not  talk  to  me  about.  .  .  .  Love  means  that. 
It  means  perfect  freedom.  It  means  an  obligation  to 
tell  the  person  you  love  everything.  It  means  that 
all  barriers  are  down." 

"Mia  Bella,  how  little  you  know  of  the  joy  of 
laying  those  barriers  aside,  one  by  one." 

"That  is  an  artificial  thing  to  do,  Guido !  When  two 
people  love  each  other  they  should  be  natural.  .  .  . 
We  are  never  natural,  when  we  are  together." 


MARRIAGE  363 

"Nature?  She  is  for  the  people, — not  for  you  and 
me." 

"But  I  am  of  the  people,  Guido.  .  .  .  You 
never  seem  to  understand  that!  I  wasn't  born  to  all 
this  luxury.  When  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  be  poor; 
I  peeled  the  potatoes,  and  brought  the  cow  in  at  night, 
and  in  winter  I  cleaned  away  the  snow.  .  .  .  You 
don't  like  me  to  talk  about  that,  do  you?" 

Guido's  dark  face  flushed.  "No.  For  the  Con- 
tessa  Avezzana  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  quite  so  far 
back." 

"You  mean?" 

"I  mean,  carissima,  that  in  my  country  no  one  will 
question  where  I  find  you.  It  will  be  enough  that  you 
have  become — my  wife." 

"It  will  never  be  enough  for  me!"  Ann  burst  out: 
"Guido — can't  you  see  that  I  am  all  wrong  for  you? 
Can't  you  understand  that  I  can  never  make  you  hap- 
py?" She  was  horrified  at  her  words  as  she  said  them, 
but  she  did  not  withdraw  them.  Instead  she  waited, 
breathless,  to  see  what  Avezzana  would  say. 

To  her  amazement,  he  patted  her  hand  with  complete 
calm  and  murmured:  "You  are  nervous,  my  Ann. 
.  .  .  Do  not  distress  yourself;  you  have  only  to 
leave  all  to  me." 

It  was  too  much ;  the  girl's  nerves,  to  which  he  had 
so  soothingly  referred,  suddenly  snapped.  She  poured 
a  torrent  of  appeal  upon  him;  she  found  herself  say- 
ing things  of  which  she  had  never  had  any  premoni- 
tion ;  she  begged  him  to  let  her  go, — to  forget  her.  It 


364  THE  CORTLANDTS 

was  after  this  climax  that  she  felt  the  Italian's  cold 
eyes  upon  her ;  they  brought  her  up  sharp. 

"Go?  No, — never,"  he  said  frigidly.  "You  are  a 
child  to  speak  to  me  so!  .  .  .  This  is  what  comes 
of  unbridled  talk!  You  see,  my  way  is  better." 

"But,  Guido, — I  don't  love  you.  I  never  entirely 
realized  it  before, — but  I  don't." 

"Why  should  you,  before  we  marry?  It  is  enough 
that  you  do  not  dislike  me.  .  .  .  After,  you  may 
leave  it  to  me." 

"But  suppose  I  shouldn't  grow  to  care  for  you  ?" 

Avezzana  smiled  superbly.  "I  take  the  chance,"  he 
said. 

"Doesn't  it  make  any  difference  to  you,  knowing 
how  I  feel?" 

"It  puts  me  on  my  mettle,  mia  Bella.'' 

And  that  was  the  end  of  that:  Ann  realized  quite 
clearly  that  she  was,  this  time,  well  caught.  In  a 
moment  Mrs.  William  came  bustling  into  the  room 
with  a  foreign  package  in  her  hands,  which  Avezzana 
identified  as  addressed  in  his  mother's  fine  handwrit- 
ing. The  two  of  them  opened  it  expeditiously,  while 
Ann  stood  apart,  watching  them  with  sullen  eyes. 
There  was  beautiful  old  Venetian  lace  in  the  package, 
and  a  necklace  of  diamonds  which  sent  Mrs.  Cortlandt 
into  an  ecstasy.  She  insisted  on  trying  it  around  the 
bride's  slim  throat,  in  spite  of  Ann's  indifference. 

.  .  Avezzana  stood  looking  on  with  shining  eyes, 
and  the  girl  realized  that  he  considered  her  apathetic 
attitude  a  becoming  one  for  the  future  Contessa  Avez- 


MARRIAGE  365 

zana.  .  .  .  She  escaped  as  soon  as  she  could,  on 
the  plea  of  being  very  tired. 

When  she  had  gained  her  room,  she  shut  the  door 
behind  her,  and  stood  for  some  moments  with  her 
back  against  it.  She  was  breathing  hard  and  her  eyes 
were  wild.  .  .  .  What  was  it  the  ambassador  had 
said  of  Guido?  "You  should  see  him  returning  from 
the  chase  1"  .  .  .  He  was  merciless.  She  knew,  now, 
how  he  tracked  down  helpless  things.  .  .  .  She 
looked  about  her  at  her  pleasant,  familiar  room. 
.  .  .  She  would  be  in  strange  places,  too.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  one  to  whom  she  might  talk  freely. 
If  only  her  guardian  were  at  home !  On  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  she  determined  to  write  to  him,  and  she 
rushed  to  get  out  her  desk.  She  had  poured  her  heart 
out  to  him,  and  confessed  all  her  unhappiness,  when 
suddenly  she  remembered  that  when  he  received  her  let- 
ter she  would  be  already  married  to  the  Italian. 
.  .  .  Nine  days,  and  it  took  a  letter  a  full  two  weeks 
to  reach  France!  Her  guardian  could  not  help  her, 
then.  She  tore  the  paper  into  tiny  bits  and  struggled 
with  racking  sobs.  .  .  .  As  the  pieces  flew  from  her 
hands  to  the  basket  the  last  atom  of  her  self-control 
fled,  and  she  flung  herself  across  her  bed,  in  a  passion 
of  tears. 

After  a  long  time  her  sobs  lessened,  and  she  lay 
for  a  while,  listening  to  the  homely  sounds  that  drifted 
in  from  the  Square.  .  .  .  She  was,  now,  more 
melancholy  than  desperate.  .  .  .  She  wondered  if 
she  might  get  Fanny  to  advise  her,  but  a  memory  of 


366  THE  CORTLANDTS 

her  friend's  aloofness  since  she  had  broken  with  Hen- 
dricks  made  her  give  that  up  with  a  sobbing  sigh.  The 
aunts  were  worse  than  useless,  and  she  had  no  con- 
fidence in  Mr.  Renneslyer's  good  sense.  .  .  Peter! 
How  stupid  she  had  been  not  to  have  thought  of  him 
before!  There  was,  at  last,  some  one  to  whom  she 
could  talk  with  absolute  freedom !  She  sprang  up,  and 
•wrote  to  him  at  once. 

DEAR  PETER: 

I  am  to  be  married  next  week  to  Count  Guido  Avez- 
zana.  He  is  an  Italian,  and  I  do  want  to  see  you,  very 
much.  My  uncle  is  still  away,  and  I  feel  very  lonely. 
If  you  are  at  Milton  Center  I  wish  you  would  come 
up  to  New  York. 

Yours  sincerely, 

ANN  BYRNE. 

P.  S. — I  hope  you  are  quite  well  again.  I  shall 
always  remember  that  you  saved  my  life.  A.  B. 

After  that,  she  was  happier,  although  she  could  not 
have  said  why. 

It  was  less  than  a  week  before  the  wedding,  when 
very  early  one  morning  old  Joseph  brought  a  note  up 
to  her.  "A  little  boy,  he  brung  it,"  he  said.  "They 
is  no  answer,  Miss  Ann."  The  girl  opened  it  list- 
lessly, entirely  uninterested  in  its  contents.  She 
read: 

Annie,  you  must  come  out  and  talk  to  me.  There 
is  no  use  in  my  coming  to  the  house;  I'd  have  no 
chance  with  you,  with  Mrs.  Cortlandt  and  all  that  lot. 


MARRIAGE  367 

Bring  a  key  to  the  gate  with  you,  and  we  will  sit  in  the 
Square  where  we  won't  be  disturbed.  I  have  to  see 
you  alone.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  PETER. 

"Peter!"  Ann's  heart  softened  at  his  sprawling 
signature.  Of  course  she  would  go  to  him.  The 
comfortable  companionship  which  she  enjoyed  with 
him  seemed  to  reach  out  and  touch  her  with  a  friendly 
hand.  "Good  old  Peter!"  she  said  aloud,  putting  any 
hat  at  all  on  her  head,  regardless  of  the  way  she 
looked.  She  ran  down  the  stairs  with  more  eager- 
ness than  she  had  shown  in  weeks.  The  key  to  the 
Square  hung  on  a  hook  by  the  front  door ;  she  snatched 
it  and  was  off  like  a  flash, — down  the  steps  and  across 
the  street.  Peter  was  waiting  for  her  by  the  gate. 
He  looked  very  well,  she  thought,  as  she  ran  toward 
him;  not  beautiful,  like  Avezzana, — commonplace,  per- 
haps,— but  strong  and  plain,  and  comfortable.  His 
rugged  face  was  white,  and  she  wondered  if  he  were 
not  yet  entirely  well. 

"Annie,"  was  all  he  said,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand, 
and  she  fancied  there  was  reproach  in  his  tone.  His 
eyes  had  a  hurt  look;  she  thought  suddenly  of  a  puppy 
she  once  had,  which  grieved  when  she  punished  him. 

"I  am  awfully  glad  to  see  you,  Peter,"  she  cried, 
gallantly  opposing  his  depression. 

They  hurried  into  the  Square  and  shut  the  iron 
gate  behind  them,  with  the  air  of  conspirators.  Ann 
wondered  what  Avezzana  would  think  if  he  could  see 
her  running  along  with  a  strange  man's  hand  on  her 


368  THE  CORTLANDTS 

arm,  but  she  did  not  care,  she  was  so  glad  to  see 
Peter!  Good  old  comfortable  Peter!  Nothing  alren 
about  Peter,  nothing  mysterious,  nothing  restrained! 
They  found  a  bench  where  the  shade  lay  thick,  al- 
though the  sun  shone  on  the  pebbles  of  the  path  at  their 
feet.  There  at  last  Peter  spoke. 

"Annie,"  he  said,  "y°u  are  not  going  to  marry  that 
Italian !"  Ann  looked  at  him  open-mouthed ;  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  her  to  have  been  more  sur- 
prised. Peter's  eyes  were  fierce,  and  the  bony  struc- 
ture of  his  jaw  was  suddenly  noticeable  to  an  extra- 
ordinary extent. 

"You  must  be  mad,"  the  girl  said  at  length.  Her 
feelings  were  divided  between  indignation  and  amaze- 
ment. 

"I  am  not  half  so  mad  as  you  are,"  Peter  snorted 
indignantly,  "marrying  a  foreigner  like  that!  How 
do  you  know  he  will  make  you  happy?  If  he  had  been 
a  New  Yorker  I'd  have  kept  still,  no  matter  how  I  felt. 
An  American,  that's  one  thing,  but  a  foreigner !  Go- 
ing off  to  a  strange  country,  too, — to  Italy, — with  him ! 
What  would  you  do  if  you  didn't  like  it,  away  off 
there  alone?" 

Ann  shivered  a  little,  for  suddenly  the  castle  in 
Piedmont,  where  they  were  to  go  on  their  arrival 
in  Italy,  seemed  like  a  prison  to  her ;  its  heralded  stone 
walls  were  frightening,  and  horribly  depressing.  "You 
haven't  any  right  to  talk  to  me  like  this,  Peter,"  she 
cried  fiercely.  "I  am  unhappy  enough,  as  it  is." 

Peter's  entire  face  lit  up  at  this  incautious  betrayal. 


MARRIAGE  365 

He  pounced  upon  it  at  once.  "Unhappy  are  you?" 
he  asked.  "That  makes  it  simpler."  He  faced  her 
mockingly.  "I  bet  you're  half  scared,"  he  said,  "and 
wishing  you  didn't  have  to  go  through  with  it." 

"There's  something  you  don't  know,  Peter."  She 
could  feel  her  cheeks  burn,  under  his  eager  eyes. 

"What?" 

"I — have  to  marry  Guido.  We — we  were  together 
all  night,  at  Gettysburg." 

"What  of  it?" 

Radiant  relief  flashed  into  Ann's  face.  "Oh,  that 
is  what  I  tried  to  make  them  see !  We  were  trying  to 
get  away  from  the  battle,  Peter,  and  we  couldn't  find 
the  Sanitary  Commission,  and  I  was  too  tired  to  go 
on,  and  we  found  an  empty  house — " 

"You  can  tell  me  the  story  of  your  life  some  other 
time,  Annie.  The  thing  to  do  now  is  to  make  up 
your  mind  to  throw  over  this  Italian." 

"Oh,  Peter,  you  know  what  I  did  to  Hendricks? 
I  have  to  marry  Count  Avezzana,  now  I  said  I  would. 
Do  you  know  what  everybody  would  call  me  if  I 
didn't? — A  jilt!  And  I  don't  see  how  I  could  go  on 
living  with  the  Cortlandts  if  I  did  a  thing  like  that, 
now  they're  so  pleased  with  the  match !"  Doubts  which 
she  had  been  struggling  to  stifle  came  flooding  over 
Ann,  and  she  began  to  cry,  softly  and  hopelessly. 

"You  don't  have  to  live  with  the  Cortlandts,"  Peter 
said  roughly.  He  leaned  over  and  put  an  urgent 
hand  on  her  arm.  "You're  coming  to  Chicago  to  live 
with  me." 


270  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Ann  was  too  startled  to  reply.  She  looked  at  him 
in  wide-eyed  astonishment,  her  last  tears  trembling  on 
her  cheeks.  Peter  answered  the  interrogation  in  her 
look. 

"You  don't  think  I  came  here  just  to  talk,  do  you  ?" 
he  demanded.  "I  came  to  take  you  back  with  me,  and 
I  am  going  to  do  it.  Do  you  know  what  this  is?"  He 
produced  a  stiff  official-looking  paper  from  his  coat 
pocket  Ann  shook  her  head,  speechless.  "It's  a  mar- 
riage license,  that's  what  it  is!  I've  got  it  all  fixed  up 
with  a  minister  at  the  Unitarian  Church,  to  marry  us 
this  morning." 

"But,  Peter,"  Ann  expostulated  feebly,  "I  never 
heard  anything  so  ridiculous  in  my  life!  I  am  going 
to  marry  Count  Avezzana  next  Wednesday,  at  eight 
o'clock,  in  the  Catholic  Cathedral." 

"Are  you  a  Catholic?" 

"Not  yet,  but  I  will  be,  Monday.  Everybody  in 
Italy  is,  you  know." 

"Well,  you  can  go  ahead  and  be  a  Catholic,  if  you 
want  to,  but  the  wedding  is  off!  Understand  that  ?" 

"Why,  Peter,  I'll  have  to  go  through  with  it, — so 
late,  like  this." 

Peter  frowned  at  her  fiercely.  "You  have  to  do 
nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  stormed.  Suddenly  he  let  go 
his  grasp  on  her  arm  to  take  hold  of  her  shoulders 
and  pull  her  toward  him  with  a  pleasant  roughness. 
He  looked  at  her  for  an  instant,  so  close  that  she  could 
see  the  black  specks  swimming  in  the  yellowish  color 
of  his  eyes.  Then  he  kissed  her. 


MARRIAGE  371 

"How  about  it?"  he  demanded  boyishly,  holding 
her  away  from  him  and  laughing  into  her  perturbed 
face. 

"Oh,  Peter,  I  don't  know.  I've  got  my  trousseau 
and  everything,  and  Guido  has  given  me  a  lot  of 
things, — rings  and  brooches, — and  I  have  had  a  present 
from  his  mother,  and  a  letter  from  uncle.  I  think  he 
wishes  me  to  marry  Count  Avezzana — I've  been  such 
a  trial  to  him. — I  couldn't  disappoint  him  again." 

Peter's  mouth  set  m  a  straight  severe  line.  "This 
has  nothing  to  do  with  any  one  in  the  world  except 
you  and  me,"  he  said  sternly.  "I  guess  you  know  I 
love  you,  all  right  I  didn't  say  anything  before  be- 
cause I  am  so  damned  poor.  I  thought  I'd  go  back 
to  Chicago  and  work  like  the  devil  and  make  some 
money  before  I  tried  to  tie  you  up,  but  you  have  rushed 
me.  You  belong  to  me,  Annie,  don't  you  know  that?" 

A  delightful  peace  settled  down  on  Ann.  "I  never 
knew  it  before  this  minute,"  she  sighed  happily. 

"It  will  be  hard  work  at  first,  but  you  won't  mind 
that,  will  you?  You're  strong,  and  you  weren't  born 
to  all  this  luxury.  We'll  do  something  out  there  be- 
fore we're  through,  and  we'll  do  it  together.  Partners ! 
I've  got  a  little  money.  My  mother  left  me  thirty-five 
hundred  dollars,  enough  to  get  us  started,  and  I'll  be 
damned  if  I  can't  support  you.  Support  you!  Before 
I  get  through  I'll  make  a  rich  woman  of  you.  But 
just  at  first,  Annie,  if  it  is  hard  work  you  won't 
mind?" 

"Peter,  I'd  love  to  work,"  Ann  assured  him  expaiK 


372  THE  CORTLANDTS 

sively.  "I  hate  being  a  fine  lady.  That  was  one  of 
the  things  I  dreaded — I  don't  want  to  be  a  contessa; 
— I  want  to  do  things  in  my  life, — do  them  myself. 
But  do  you  think  it  would  be  possible  for  me  to  marry 
you,  and  just  go  off?  Leave  all  this  behind  me?" 

Peter  laughed  and  kissed  her  again.  "Possible?" 
he  said.  "It's  happening. — You'll  be  my  wife  in  half 
an  hour." 

They  came  out  of  the  little  Square  with  an  even 
more  conspirital  air  than  that  with  which  they  had 
gone  in.  It  was  almost  noon  and  the  streets  were 
deserted.  Peter  would  not  allow  Ann  out  of  his  sight 
even  long  enough  to  go  home  for  her  gloves,  but 
hurried  her  off  to  the  horse  cars,  where  she  sat  silent 
while  he  talked  to  her  steadily  of  the  new  life  she  was 
about  to  undertake.  He  gave  her  no  time  for  thought, 
no  empty  moments  in  which  she  might  change  her 
mind.  The  minister  was  waiting  for  them.  He  seemed 
extraordinarily  unclerical  to  Ann,  used  to  Episcopal 
robes  and  ritual,  but  his  church  was  convincingly 
righteous,  and  she  was  forced  to  believe  that  the  brief 
ceremony  which  they  went  through  was  entirely  legal. 
The  minister  shook  hands  with  them  both,  and  it  was 
over. 

Out  on  the  street  Ann  wondered  if  horror  were  the 
feeling  that  overpowered  her,  but  when  she  stole  a 
glance  at  Peter's  determined  face,  she  knew  that  it  was 
not  Secure  in  his  strength,  she  could  no  longer  fear 
the  future,  no  matter  how  long  it  might  be.  It  was 
he  who  told  her  just  what  she  should  do.  She  was 


MARRIAGE  373 

to  go  home  to  Washington  Square,  put  into  her  new 
trunk  all  her  old  clothes,  and  such  parts  of  her  trous- 
seau as  might  be  useful  in  the  extremely  plain  life 
which  confronted  her.  She  was  then  to  leave  a  tag 
on  the  trunk  with  directions  to  forward  it  to  a  hotel  in 
Chicago. 

"The  Adams  House  is  pretty  grand  for  us,"  Peter 
said,  laughing,  "but  I  guess  we  can  stand  a  few  days 
of  it  until  we  find  a  place  of  our  own  to  live  in. 
After  all  a  man  doesn't  take  a  honeymoon  every  day." 

He  waited  outside  in  the  Square  while  Ann  went 
home  to  do  her  packing.  She  wondered,  as  she 
climbed  the  familiar  high  steps,  if  this  were  the  last 
time  her  feet  would  ever  pass  that  friendly  threshold, 
and  as  the  shadow  of  the  house  fell  over  her  she 
thought,  too  late,  of  her  guardian's  possible  reaction 
to  her  mad  behavior.  She  slipped  in  and  up  the  stairs 
without  meeting  any  one.  Her  room  was  already  in  a 
pandemonium  of  packing;  three  trunks  stood  about 
with  their  great  mouths  gaping  for  the  fine  new 
clothes  of  her  trousseau.  She  chose  the  larger  one, 
and  hastily  put  into  it  the  plainest  dresses  she  had,  a 
part  of  her  linen,  and  her  underclothes.  Her  uncle 
would  not  begrudge  her  that,  she  knew,  but  she 
left  all  the  finer  things  behind  her.  Avezzana's 
'  jewelry  she  tied  up  in  a  little  box ;  she  struggled  for 
some  moments  to  write  him  a  note  to  accompany  it, 
but  found  that  she  was  quite  unable  to  do  so.  Instead 
she  scrawled  across  a  piece  of  paper,  "I  am  sorry. 
Ann,"  and  folded  it  away  with  the  diamonds.  Peter's 


374  THE  CORTLANDT3 

wide  gold  wedding  ring  looked  very  plain  and  sensible 
on  her  hand,  in  place  of  Avezzana's  gorgeous  token. 
There  remained  only  the  necessity  of  writing  to  Mrs. 
William,  and  this  she  accomplished  with  ease.  "I  am 
married  to  Peter  Smith,"  she  said  briefly,  "and  I  am 
going  to  Chicago  with  him  to-day.  I  know  there 
is  no  use  trying  to  make  you  understand  how  I  came 
to  do  it,  but  please  believe  I  am  sorry  to  pain  all  of 
you,  and  Count  Avezzana.  Tell  him  for  me  that  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself,  but  that  I  can  not  help  it."  She 
addressed  the  note  to  Mrs.  Cortlandt  and  then  for  the 
first  time  wrote  her  new  name  upon  a  piece  of  paper, 
"Mrs,  Peter  Smith,  Adams  House,  Chicago.  Please 
forward." 

She  stuck  the  label  on  the  top  of  the  trunk,  cast 
one  sorrowful  look  about  the  room  which  had  given 
her  sweet  shelter  for  so  long,  and  stole  off  down  the 
stairs  and  along  the  Square  to  where  Peter  was  wait- 
ing for  her. 


HONEYMOONING 

ANN  and  Peter  spent  the  first  night  of  their  journey 
in  Albany,  arriving  there  in  the  early  dusk.  All  the 
long  afternoon  they  had  sat  side  by  side  in  the  narrow 
car  seat,  watching  the  sun  sink  lower  over  the  Hudson, 
until  the  jagged  Catskills  swallowed  it  up,  and  the 
river  ran  softly  in  their  engulfing  shadow.  Peter 
now  talked  very  little,  but  he  sat  close  to  Ann,  and 
when  the  train  rocked  on  the  rough  road  bed,  or  swung 
around  a  curve,  he  swayed  lingeringly  against  her; 
she  could  feel  his  reluctance  as  he  drew  away.  The 
touch  of  his  arm  upon  her  troubled  her,  and  she  was 
uncomfortably  conscious  of  his  influence  over  her.  It 
made  her  thrillingly  apprehensive  of  the  unknown 
future,  and  she  could  think  of  nothing  else;  even  her 
guardian's  probable  regret  at  her  rash  act  seemed,  with 
Peter's  arm  pressing  hers  persistently,  unimportant. 
She  accepted  the  fact  of  their  marriage  more  readily 
than  he  did. 

"When  I  think  that  I've  got  you,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, I  think  I  must  be  mad,  and  having  hallucina- 
tions!" he  confided  to  her,  and  she  laughed,  tangible 
and  desirable,  into  his  ardent  face.  She  knew  that  it 
was  true,  what  Peter  said, — that  only  yesterday  she 
had  been,  indubitably,  his  worldly  superior,  but  so 

375 


376  THE  CORTLANDTS 

certain  was  she  of  an  inner  intimacy, — a  harmony  of 
her  soul  and  his, — that  she  found  no  place  for  astonish- 
ment at  her  unexpected  come-down  in  the  world. 

Albany  was  in  the  throes  of  a  great  Sanitary  Com- 
mission benefit  which  all  of  upper  New  York  was, 
apparently,  attending.  The  bride  and  groom  went 
from  hotel  to  hotel  in  vain ;  every  one  was  full.  The 
best  thing  they  could  do  was  to  prevail  upon  a  kindly, 
middle-aged  woman  to  allow  Ann  to  share  her  room, 
while  Peter  bunked  on  two  chairs  in  the  office.  The 
young  people  bade  each  other  a  rueful  farewell  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs,  but  they  laughed,  too,  for  it  was  a 
funny  way  to  spend  a  wedding  night. 

Early  the  next  morning,  after  a  gay  and  sparkling 
breakfast,  they  continued  their  journey.  Ann  had 
never  seen  Niagara  Falls;  and  when  Peter  voiced  her 
secret  desire  to  visit  this  paradise  of  honeymooners, 
and  suggested  they  break  their  journey  there,  she 
acquiesced  with  shining  eyes.  There  were  several 
suspicious-looking  young  pairs  standing  about  the  sta- 
tion when  they  arrived,  and  Ann  and  Peter  lost  some- 
thing of  their  horrid  self-consciousness,  in  suspecting 
them. 

They  drove  up  to  the  hotel  in  the  bus  that  had  met 
the  train,  in  the  company  of  two  other  blushing 
couples.  "If  you  look  at  them  long  enough,"  Ann 
whispered  to  Peter,  "you  can  make  them  think  we  are 
old  married  people !" 

But  Peter  whispered  back,  "I'm  glad  we're  not! 
Aren't  you?" 


HONEYMOONING  377 

The  hotel  seemed  most  magnificent,  as  they  ap- 
proached it  over  the  curving  drive  that  lead  to  its 
high  front  steps,  flanked  by  long  and  spacious  wooden 
porches,  where  old  ladies  sat  in  terrifying  rows,  knit- 
ting, and  all  rocking  in  unison.  They  looked  up  as 
the  bus  stopped;  it  was  obvious  that  they  counted  the 
abashed  passengers,  two  by  two,  as  they  descended,  and 
they  smiled  knowingly  the  while. 

Peter  delayed  for  some  time  at  the  desk,  talking 
prices  with  a  supercilious  clerk.  Their  room,  when 
they  finally  reached  it,  was  very  small, — Ann  had  never 
lodged  so  humbly  before, — but  its  window  opened  on  a 
garden  in  the  rear  of  the  hotel,  and  there  was,  after 
all,  a  place  for  the  bags. 

The  boy  who  had  shown  them  up-stairs  deposited 
a  thick  white  pitcher  filled  with  drinking  water  upon 
the  table,  and  opened  the  window,  after  which  service 
Ann  automatically  gave  him  a  coin  from  her  purse, 
and  he  departed,  shutting  the  door  behind  him. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  bride  and  groom  had 
been  left  alone.  They  stood  as  he  left  them,  rooted  to 
the  violently  flowered  carpet.  More  than  anything  else, 
after  her  dusty  journey,  Ann  had  wanted  to  wash,  but 
in  her  suspense  as  to  what  Peter  would  now  do,  she 
forgot  all  about  it.  She  forgot  all  about  everything 
except  Peter,  and  she  looked  at  him  slyly,  under  her 
lashes.  He  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment,  stocky  and 
rather  lowering,  because  of  his  self -consciousness. 
Feeling  Ann's  eyes  on  him  he  threw  her  an  elaborately 
casual  glance,  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  window, 


378  THE  CORTLANDTS 

which  he  lifted,  with  great  pains  and  care,  exactly  two 
inches.  Ann  smiled,  suddenly  mistress  of  the  situation, 
now  that  she  knew  Peter  was  as  nervous  as  she. 

"You'll  want  to  freshen  up,"  he  suggested  \vith 
specious  ease,  "and  rest  a  bit,  before  supper.  I'll  go 
out  and  take  a  look  around.  You  can  get  a  good 
sleep." 

Ann  flashed  a  radiant  look  at  him.  "I  am  tired," 
she  admitted. 

"Well  then, — good-by."  Peter  made  toward  the 
door,  and  paused.  Ann's  heart  missed  a  beat,  as  he 
came  slowly  toward  her.  "Don't  forget  me,"  he  said, 
and  took  her  in  his  arms,  gently  enough,  but  closely. 
Ann's  startled  eyes  fell  before  the  ardent  look  in  his, 
and  he  kissed  her  lids,  laughing  softly  as  he  did  so. 
They  stood  for  an  instant,  smiling  vaguely,  and  then 
Peter's  grasp  tightened,  and  for  the  first  time  he  sought 
her  lips.  She  abandoned  herself  to  his  kiss,  clinging 
weakly  to  him,  without  definite  thought ;  she  was  in  a 
whirl  of  emotion.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before  Peter 
drew  back ;  he  was  breathing  hard,  and  she  saw  that  the 
black  pupils  of  his  eyes  had  almost  obliterated  the 
yellowish  iris. 

"I'm  off,"  he  said  thickly,  and  was  gone  without 
another  look. 

Ann  bathed,  and  lay  down  on  the  bed ;  she  thought 
that  she  could  not  sleep.  .  .  .  When  she  listened 
for  it,  she  could  just  hear  a  far-off,  roaring  sound 
which  she  was  sure  must  be  the  Falls.  .  .  .  She 
hoped  that  Peter  was  not  seeing  them  without  her. 


HONEYMOONING  379 

.  .  .  Peter.  .  .  .  How  strange  that  she  should 
have  married  him.  .  .  .  Peter.  .  .  .  He  was 
not  handsome,  but  he  had  a  look  of  strength.  .  .  . 
He  had  a  sudden  smile,  too.  .  .  .  Peter.  .  .  . 
She  awoke  in  a  panic  lest  he  should  have  returned. 
She  could  see  that  the  sunlight  lay  in  long  glittering 
lanes  on  the  fresh  grass,  so  she  knew  it  must  be  almost 
supper  time. 

She  put  on  a  brown  silk  dress  that  she  had  brought 
in  her  bag.  It  went  very  well  with  her  red  hair,  she 
decided,  as  she  fastened  the  crisp  white  collar  with  a 
cameo  brooch  Mr.  Cortlandt  had  given  her  on  her 
eighteenth  birthday.  She  was  a  smart  and  appealing 
figure,  as  she  descended  the  wide  stairway  that  led  to 
the  office;  when  Peter  saw  her  a  light  leapt  into  his 
eyes. 

They  went  in  to  supper  at  once,  half  starved  after 
their  journey,  and  a  luncheon  snatched  while  the  train 
waited  at  a  station  eating  house.  Fellow  diners  beamed 
sympathetically  upon  them,  but  they  were  oblivious 
to  it.  A  negro  waiter  with  a  wide  smile  served  them 
solicitously,  and  they  ate  steadily  through  the  hearty 
American  plan  meal.  He  brought  them  course  after 
course,  served  in  tiny  white  dishes,  and  carried  high 
over  his  shoulder,  on  a  tin  waiter  precariously  poised 
on  one  hand,  but  they  remained  undaunted.  They 
laughed  often,  as  they  ate,  and  their  eyes  were  very 
bright  and  shining. 

After  supper  they  walked  over  to  the  Falls,  which 
Peter  had  refrained  from  looking  at  by  himself.  Ann 


380  THE  CORTLANDTS 

thought  it  was  very  sweet  of  him  to  have  waited ;  she 
delighted  in  thinking  that  she  was  necessary  to  his 
enjoyment  even  of  so  stupendous  a  work  of  nature. 
It  was  rather  dark  on  the  path,  and  Peter  held  her 
hand  very  tight,  but  when  they  came  out  on  the  plat- 
form beside  the  Falls  the  air  was  all  a  filmy  whiteness, 
reflected  from  the  foam.  The  roar  Ann  had  heard 
was  intensified  a  thousandfold;  the  night  was  filled 
with  rushing  sound.  Very  near  them,  only  a  few  yards 
away,  Niagara  tumbled  headlong.  Ann  looked  at  it 
with  terror;  she  wondered  what  would  happen  to  her 
if  she  were  flung  on  that  resistless  torrent.  As  though 
he  had  read  her  thought,  Peter  slipped  his  arm  through 
hers. 

"Don't  go  too  near,"  he  cautioned  quietly. 

Ann  abandoned  herself  to  that  safe  clasp.  .  .  . 
Peter.  .  .  .  Good  old  Peter.  .  .  .  She 
smiled  at  him  mistily  in  the  wan  light  of  the  foam. 

They  stood  there  for  some  time,  linked  by  the  clasp 
of  Peter's  hand;  they  told  each  other  that  they  felt 
very  small  and  unimportant,  but  they  each  knew  better. 
Niagara  rolled  on  majestically  before  them,  but  they, 
too,  had  something  majestic  in  their  lives.  .  .  . 
After  a  while  they  did  not  speak  at  all;  they  only 
stood  and  listened,  and  felt  the  world  tremble;  they, 
too,  trembled,  sensitively. 

After  a  while  Ann  had  a  feeling  that  Peter  wanted 
her  to  suggest  going  back  to  the  hotel;  therefore  she 
did  so,  although  she  felt  herself  flushing,  in  the  night. 
On  the  dark  paths  he  was  distant  with  her;  he  was 


HONEYMOONING  381 

very  gentle,  very  reassuring,  and  back  in  the  blazing 
hotel  office,  he  smiled  at  her,  the  sudden  quick  smile 
that  she  liked.  He  sent  her  up-stairs  alone,  murmuring 
that  he  would  follow  her  in  a  few  moments. 

She  undressed  with  lightning  quickness,  and  soon 
she  was  arrayed  in  her  thick  cambric  nightgown,  with 
'its  prim  ruffle  of  French  embroidery  about  the  slim 
column  of  her  throat.  She  braided  her  hair  in  two 
shining  plaits.  The  bed  was  ready;  she  crept  into  it, 
and  lay  along  the  far  side,  against  the  wall.  It  seemed 
a  long  time  that  she  waited,  but  at  last  she  heard 
footsteps  coming  down  the  hall.  She  could  make  out 
the  slightly  uneven  sound  of  Peter's  gait.  There  came 
a  little  knock  at  the  door,  tremulous  and  apologetic, 
and  all  unbidden,  a  thought  flashed  through  Ann's 
mind. 

"It  couldn't  have  been  Hendricks!  It  never  could 
have  been  Avezzana!"  She  called  out,  in  a  clear  full 
voice,  "Is  that  you,  Peter  ?  Come  in !" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   END   OF  THE   RAINBOW 

ANN  came  into  Chicago  armed  with  a  brave  deter- 
mination to  make  the  best  of  things,  but  she  expected 
the  worst,  for  Peter's  panegyrics  had  not  really  shaken 
her  belief  that  the  United  States  had  but  one  city, 
which,  in  daring  all  for  love,  she  had  left  behind  her. 
No  pioneer  wife  adventuring  into  the  prairie  wilder- 
ness was  more  sternly  courageous. 

The  bride  and  groom  spent  the  last  night  of  their 
journey  in  Detroit,  and  arrived  in  Chicago  at  sunset 
of  a  clear  September  afternoon.  All  day  long  the  sky 
had  been  poignantly  blue,  with  great  clouds  like  con- 
tinents adventuring  over  its  trackless  expanse,  but  at 
sundown  this  pellucid  quality  was  clouded  by  an  im- 
palpable dust.  The  sun  set  royally,  in  banks  of 
fire-edged  cloud ;  the  whole  west  was  flushed  to  orange 
and  rose.  The  car  was  filled  with  colored  light,  that 
turned  all  white  things  pink, — Ann's  handkerchief  and 
Peter's  formidable  collar,  with  high  points  which  dug 
into  his  cheeks. 

They  had  been  running  through  rusty  woods  where 
pale  cream-colored  sand-hills  thrust  their  stark  crests 
through  brownish  undergrowth;  it  was,  Ann  thought, 
too  strange  to  be  beautiful,  and  yet  she  looked  out  of 
her  window  eagerly.  She  had  no  warning  at  all  of 

382 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         383 

what  was  coming  when  suddenly  the  train  burst  from 
enveloping  trees,  and  ran  along  the  shore  of  Lake 
Michigan.  It  lay  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  rail- 
road, vast  and  blue  and  unfathomable;  its  waters 
stretched  to  the  farthest  horizon,  yet  lapped  the  low 
embankment  where  the  tracks  were  laid. 

"See !"  Ann  cried  involuntarily,  "it  is  high  tide." 

They  laughed  together  over  her  mistake,  and  pointed 
but  to  each  other  sails  on  the  blue  expanse.  As  they  • 
watched,  the  clouds  on  the  eastern  horizon  took  on  an 
enchanting  rose-colored  reflection,  and  the  tops  of  the 
amiable  waves  mirrored  it,  although  their  depths  re- 
mained deeply  blue. 

In  no  time  at  all,  Peter  was  urging  Ann  to  look  at 
the  other  side,  where  scattered  buildings  testified  to 
the  beginnings  of  the  town,  and  presently  the  train 
roared  on  to  a  trestle,  while  she  looked,  and  gasped. 
To  her  right  was  the  lake,  already  familiar  to  her; 
to  her  left  there  lay  another  sheet  of  water,  a  little 
lagoon,  which  stretched  from  the  high  embankment 
over  which  the  railroad  ran  to  a  distant  street.  It 
was  like  molten  gold,  in  the  sunset,  and  on  it  were 
numbers  of  rowboats,  and  even  a  tiny  sail-boat  or 
two,  coming  to  anchor  in  the  close  of  the  day.  On 
the  street  beyond,  dignified  houses  with  fronts  of  yel- 
lowish limestone  stood  singly,  surrounded  by  trees,  or 
in  austere  rows,  broken,  here  and  there,  by  a  frame  cot- 
tage of  an  earlier  time,  and  shielded  by  double  files 
of  cotton  wood  trees. 

"But  it  is  very  elegant,  Peter,"  Ann  said  in  a  low 


384  THE  CORTLANDTS 

voice.  She  had  not  expected  to  find  anything  so 
metropolitan  in  the  new  city  of  but  one  hundred  fifty 
thousand  inhabitants. 

"Isn't  it?"  He  was  frankly  triumphant.  "Perhaps 
we'll  live  there  some  day.  Just  be  patient,  Ann.  I'll 
work.  You've  never  seen  anything  like  the  way  I'll 
work." 

"We'll  work  together,"  Ann  declared  stoutly.  In- 
deed, she  wanted  no  better  fate. 

There  was  time  before  supper  for  a  brief  survey  of 
the  environs  of  the  hotel,  so  Ann  and  Peter  left  their 
bags  and  walked  aimlessly  about  in  the  rich  light,  over 
echoing  wooden  sidewalks,  and  up  and  down  innumer- 
able little  flights  of  steps  built  to  accommodate  the 
uneven  grades  of  the  streets.  They  went  into  a  small 
park  across  from  their  hotel,  and  found  a  bench  with 
a  good  view  of  the  late  afternoon  driving  which  ani- 
mated Michigan  Avenue.  Ladies  with  bouffant  skirts 
leaned  elegantly  back  in  comfortable  family  rock- 
aways;  their  horses  were  humanely  draped  with  fly 
nets,  and  the  hired  men  who  drove  them  lolled  at  ease 
upon  the  front  seats.  Gentlemen  whose  sporting 
equipment  reminded  Ann  of  Mr.  Renneslyer's,  drove 
pairs  of  swift  long-tailed  horses  to  high  buggies  with 
great  canopy  tops  folded  behind,  or  rode  briskly  down 
the  street  on  horseback,  in  long,  light  checked 
trousers,  high  hats  and  dark  coats,  exactly  as  they  did 
in  New  York.  Ann  was  amazed.  "I  wish  Fanny 
could  see  this !"  she  exclaimed,  from  time  to  time. 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         385 

After  supper  Peter  suggested  the  play  at  McVicker's 
Theater,  but  Ann  begged  to  go  instead  to  Colonel 
Wood's  Museum,  where  a  transparency  strung  across 
the  street  advertising,  and  picturing,  the  largest  woman 
in  the  world,  had  piqued  her  curiosity.  They  went, 
and  gaped  at  her  satisfactorily.  What  did  Ann,  in 
her  slim  youth  fulness,  have  in  common  with  a  lady 
weighing  an  alleged  nine  hundred  pounds  ?  When  she 
stood  before  her  the  contrast  piquantly  doubled  the 
phenomenon's  size.  The  bride  and  groom  wandered 
happily  among  the  curios  and  lesser  freaks,  and  Ann 
wondered  that  such  perfect  comradeship  could  exist. 
Her  eyes  shone  with  happiness,  and  her  gaiety  bubbled 
up  irrepressibly. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  she  looked  across  the 
table  at  Peter,  as  he  finished  off  his  last  buckwheat 
cake.  "Do  hurry,"  she  said  impatiently. 

"What  for?" 

"Why,  Peter,  I  haven't  seen  your  shop  yet !" 

Peter's  happy  face  clouded.  "There's  time  enough 
for  that,"  he  said.  "You  had  better  let  me  get  it  fixed 
up  before  you  come." 

All  Ann's  morning  radiance  fled.  "Fixed  up?"  she 
echoed.  "Aren't  we  partners?" 

Peter  smiled  at  her  tragic  tone,  and  patted  her  hand 
surreptitiously.  "Of  course  we  are,"  he  murmured 
consolingly.  "I'll  make  the  money  and  you  can  spend 
it.  That's  a  partnership,  isn't  it?" 

At  this  the  bride's  eyes  filled  with  foolish  tears,  and 


386  THE  CORTLANDTS 

Peter  looked  at  her  in  chop  fallen  alarm.  "If  you  feel 
like  that,"  he  said  hastily,  "of  course  we'll  go.  We'll 
go  right  now." 

"I'm — I'm  silly,  I  know."  Ann  sat  blinking  rapidly 
to  get  rid  of  her  tears,  fearful  of  fellow-breakfasters' 
interest  in  them.  She  smiled  mistily.  She  had  won 
her  point,  but,  although  she  said  nothing  further,  a 
slight  feeling  of  soreness  remained.  When  they  arrived 
at  the  shop,  however,  she  understood  Peter's  reluc- 
tance, for  they  had  left  the  genteel  neighborhood  long 
before  they  came  to  it  The  streets  in  that  quarter 
were  in  bad  condition ;  Ann's  new  boots,  and  even  the 
white  stockings  above  them,  were  well  plastered  with 
mud,  while  on  the  corner  was  an  abandoned  wagon 
with  the  sign  "No  bottom  here"  humorously  hung  from 
its  half  submerged  body. 

"Peter, — how  shocking!  I  think  it  is  very  shiftless 
not  to  put  down  pavements." 

"Can't  do  everything  all  at  once,"  her  husband  re- 
sponded cheerfully,  as  he  eased  his  key  into  a  rusty 
lock. 

Ann  was  secretly  aghast  at  the  mean  appearance  of 
Peter's  heralded  place  of  business.  Inside,  three  years' 
accumulation  of  dust  lay  on  the  small  forge  and  the 
workbench,  and  cobwebs  draped  the  dirty  windows. 

Peter  looked  about  eagerly  enough.  "It's  good  to 
be  back!"  he  exclaimed,  stretching  out  his  arms  jovi- 
ally. "This  beats  sojering  a  pile." 

He  showed  his  wife  a  rough  little  model  which 
stood  on  the  table.  "Know  what  that  is  ?"  She  shook 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         387 

her  head;  somehow  she  found  it  impossible  to  speak. 
"It's  an  improvement  on  the  reaper  machine.  I 
held  off  enlisting  for  two  months  to  finish  it.  You 
see,  it  saves  man-power,  and  I  knew  that  would  be  a 
good  thing  for  the  country,  in  war-time.  When  I  had 
it  done  I  carried  it  over  to  Cyrus  McCormick."  Peter 
laughed  grimly.  "He  told  me  they'd  already  perfected 
that  idea,  and  he  took  me  out  into  the  works  and 
showed  it  to  me  in  the  making." 

"How  outrageous !  Couldn't  you  sue  him,  or  some- 
thing ?" 

Peter  laughed  indulgently.  In  a  bride  this  ignor- 
ance was  charming,  and  he  kissed  Ann  delightedly, 
amid  the  confusion  of  his  little  shop.  It  was  an  adven- 
ture to  kiss  her  there,  in  that  place  sacred  to  the  serious 
business  of  making  a  living. 

It  quickly  became  evident  that  Peter's  small  capital 
could  not  long  stand  the  strain  of  hotel  life,  and  he 
suggested  that  possibly  they  would  better  board  for 
a  while.  "It  would  give  us  time  to  look  around,"  he 
said  hopefully. 

Ann  was,  however,  horrified  at  the  idea.  "I  should 
hate  boarding,"  she  said.  "Nothing  to  do  all  day,  and 
really,  Peter,  it  isn't  very  genteel." 

She  was  surprised  at  the  ease  with  which  she  won 
her  point,  for  she  had  yet  to  learn  that  in  judgments 
of  this  kind  her  husband  bowed  to  her  greater  woridli- 
ness.  Indeed  when  the  decision  was  made  he  was 
conscious  of  feeling  pleasantly  superior  to  the  count- 
less other  young  couples  who  were  making  so  humble 


388  THE  CORTLANDTS 

a  beginning.  After  some  search,  they  rented  a  small 
frame  cottage  near  the  most  desirable  marble  front 
district,  on  the  west  side  of  the  city.  It  had  only 
one  story,  but  it  was  set  up  on  a  high  cellar  masked 
by  a  bright  green  wooden  lattice.  There  was  a  narrow 
front  porch,  with  a  row  of  steep  steps  leading  to  the 
walk,  and  behind  a  neat  fence  of  wooden  pickets, 
quite  a  good  sized  yard,  with  a  big  cottonwood  tree 
growing  in  it,  and  a  tiny  garden  tucked  away  behind 
the  house.  The  owner  gave  them  immediate  posses- 
sion, and  they  bought  from  him  his  big  nickel-plated 
heater,  and  the  brown  mottled  oil-cloth  on  the  hall  and 
parlor  floors. 

Settling  proved  pure  joy.  Peter  was  a  miracle  of 
efficient  energy.  He  painted  woodwork  and  floors  with 
a  speed  which  so  fascinated  Ann  that  she  could  only 
stand  and  watch  him;  he  cleaned  stovepipes  and 
drains;  he  mended  hinges  and  locks,  he  put  new 
faucets  on  the  kitchen  sink  and  even  a  boiler  beside  the 
range,  so  that  his  wife  should  have  hot  water.  Ann 
had  never  thought  about  hot  water  before;  she  had 
accepted  it  as  manna  from  heaven;  now  it  came  as  a 
miracle, — a  gift  of  love. 

Three  meals  a  day  were  the  only  drawbacks  to  all 
this  exciting  happiness.  Ann  found  that  she  was  very 
stupid  about  things  like  keeping  up  the  kitchen  fire, 
and  remembering  to  put  potatoes  on  to  boil ;  she  could 
not  seem  to  consider  them  important,  and  yet  Peter 
evidently  did.  At  first  he  did  most  of  the  serious  cook- 
ing himself,  while  his  wife  looked  on,  and  offered  him 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         389 

knives  and  spoons  at  the  wrong  moment.  It  was  all 
delightfully  amusing,  but  she  had  a  nervous  suspicion 
that  later  something  more  exacting  would  be  demanded 
of  her. 

They  spent  one  glorious  afternoon  in  the  shops, 
selecting  the  simple  necessaries  for  their  housekeeping. 
They  chose  a  white  china  set,  with  a  hair  line  of  gold 
on  the  edge,  and  they  -priced  rosewood  parlor  suites 
exhaustively,  before  they  gave  up  the  idea  of  one  as 
hopelessly  beyond  their  means.  They  bought  a  square 
of  flowered  carpet,  however,  to  lay  over  the  brown  oil- 
cloth, a  walnut  what-not  on  which  to  arrange  bric-a- 
brac,  when  they  should  have  any,  and  they  really 
plunged  on  a  butternut  bedroom  set.  Ann  had  secretly 
hoped  for  a  piano,  but  as  Peter  had  apparently  never 
considered  such  an  extravagance,  she  said  nothing1 
about  it. 

The  mysteries  of  economical  housekeeping  staggered 
her;  she  seemed  to  have  learned  nothing  during  the 
years  in  which  she  had  charge  of  her  guardian's  house, 
and  she  wondered  at  the  smugness  with  which  she 
had  assumed  that  telling  an  efficient  cook  what  they 
would  eat  three  times  a  day  was  all  there  was  to  it. 
Peter  took  her  to  market,  so  that  she  might  learn  the 
cheaper  cuts  of  meat,  but  while  she  was  still  vainly 
struggling  to  detect  the  difference  between  a  shoulder 
and  a  rib,  he  had  mastered  the  whole  carcass.  One  day, 
however,  she  ventured  as  far  as  the  center  of  town  by 
herself,  and  on  the  corner  of  the  Court-House  Square 
she  found  a  man  selling  canvasback  ducks,  and  a  dozen 


390  THE  CORTLANDTS 

quail  strung  on  a  string,  for  a  vastly  lower  price  than 
Peter's  butchers'  meat;  she  went  home  elated  at  feeling 
herself,  after  all,  an  adequate  helpmate.  After  that, 
whenever  she  was  particularly  hard  up,  she  made  her 
purchases  there. 

When  the  cottage  was  finally  equipped,  and  Ann  had 
demonstrated  that  she  was  the  equal  of  any  coal  stove, 
the  two  young  people  faced  the  solemn  fact  that  their 
honeymoon  was  ended.  The  night  before  Peter  went 
back  to  his  shop  they  had  a  final  celebration.  He 
bought  tickets  for  McVicker's  Theater,  and  the  two 
hung  over  the  gallery  rail  entranced  at  Mr.  Hackett's 
performance  of  Henry  the  IVth,  followed  by  what 
the  program  referred  to  as  a  Grand  Dance,  and  a 
brief  farce  entitled  The  Pretty  Horsebreaker.  It  was 
an  extraordinary  amount  of  entertainment  to  have 
condensed  in  one  evening,  and  it  was  late  when  they 
came  out  of  the  theater.  A  mist  almost  heavy  enough 
to  be  called  a  rain  had  drifted  into  the  town  from  the 
swampy  prairies  to  the  west,  and  Ann  delayed  to  turn 
up  her  silken  skirts,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Peter  im- 
patiently pressed  her  to  make  haste  lest  they  miss  the 
car.  He  hurried  her  off,  ominously  silent  while  she 
chattered  of  the  play,  and  when  they  rounded  the 
corner  the  street-car  had  indeed  started.  It  was  per- 
haps a  block  away  from  them,  and  the  homeward- 
bound  horses  were  making  good  time  through  the 
empty  streets.  Peter  ran  savagely  after  it,  and  might 
have  overtaken  it,  had  not  Ann  proved  unequal  to  the 
'pace.  He  ran  on  for  a  few  yards  after  she  dropped 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         391 

behind,  and  then  abandoned  the  chase.  He  stood 
waiting  for  her  to  overtake  him.  "Damn!"  he  said 
loudly.  "You've  made  me  miss  the  car."  Ann  looked 
at  him  open-mouthed.  He  spoke  as  though  no  tie  of 
affection  bound  them,  as  though  he  could  hate  her, 
his  wife.  "Always  late,  women,"  he  scolded.  "There 
won't  be  another  car  for  an  hour,  this  time  of  night." 

"Could  I  know  that?"  Ann  demanded,  plucking  up 
some  of  her  spirit,  and  facing  him  defiantly. 

"Why  couldn't  you  hurry?  Here  I  have  to  go  to 
work  early  to-morrow  morning.  .  .  .  Where  you 
going?" 

"I  shall  walk."     Her  voice  was  infinitely  frigid. 

•"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  This  mist. — It's  go- 
ing to  rain.  .  .  .  Annie!  Stop,  I  tell  you!" 

"Take  your  hand  off  me!"  She  shook  Peter  off, 
and  stalked  away  from  him;  she  walked  on  rapidly, 
alone  in  the  dark  streets,  thinking  bitterly  that  it  was 
for  this  she  had  left  her  guardian.  Subconsciously 
she  listened  for  Peter's  footsteps,  but  she  heard  no 
sound,  and  concluded  that  he  had  let  her  go  without 
him.  Miserable  tears  began  to  steal  down  her  cheeks. 

In  a  few  moments  there  came  a  great  rattling,  and 
a  clatter  of  a  horse  coming  toward  her  over  the  rough 
pavement.  A  carriage  swung  furiously  to  the  curb, 
and  she  swerved  nervously  away  as  a  man  burst  from 
its  dark  interior,  but  at  once  she  knew  it  was  Peter. 
He  seized  her  roughly,  and  drew  her,  unresisting,  into 
the  musty  privacy  of  the  hack.  He  kissed  her  wet 
!face  tempestuously. 


392  THE  CORTLANDTS 

"Annie!  Don't  cry.  I've  got  such  a  devil  of  a 
temper!  I'm  sorry.  Don't  sob  like  that!  I  never 
know  what  I  say  when  I'm  angry!  It  was  all  my 
fault.  Annie,  kiss  me!" 

She  kissed  him,  her  frozen  anger  melted  by  the  fire 
of  his  contrition,  and  in  reconciliation  she  found  a 
new  stimulation  to  love.  ...  It  was  late  when 
she  went  to  sleep.  .  .  .  Long  after  Peter  was 
deep  in  slumber,  she  lay,  very  still  and  wide-eyed  in 
the  dark,  thinking  things  over.  She  bore  no  rancor; 
her  forgiveness  was  complete,  but  she  recognized 
something  in  her  life  with  which  she  must  reckon. 
.  .  .  Peter's  temper.  ...  She  had  never  seen 
any  one  in  unbridled  anger  before.  .  .  .  She  felt 
very  far  away  and  alone.  .  .  .  Presently  she 
slipped  one  finger  into  the  loose  circle  of  her  sleeping 
husband's  hand,  and  yet  the  touch  did  not  entirely 
reassure  her. 

In  the  morning  Peter  was  all  sunny  good  humor. 
He  made  the  kitchen  fire  and  started  the  breakfast 
before  he  awakened  Ann;  when  she  sprang  up  guiltily, 
she  sniffed  the  delicious  odor  of  frying  ham.  He  went 
off  to  work  reluctantly,  and  yet  she  knew  that  he  was 
eager  to  start  again.  And  so  their  life  together 
began. 

For  the  first  few  weeks  Ann  was  completely  ab- 
sorbed in  her  housework.  In  a  month  she  had 
learned  to  have  the  essentials  of  a  simple  meal  all 
ready  at  the  same  time,  but  she  never  became  more 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         393 

than  a  fair  cook.  She  worked  all  day,  just  as  Peter 
did,  but  often  she  walked  to  the  shop  with  him  in  the 
morning,  and  came  home  laden  with  packages  from 
the  cheaper  stores  off  Halstead  Street.  Sometimes  she 
lingered  to  watch  her  husband  plunge  into  his  day's 
work;  he  forgot  all  about  her,  as  soon  as  he  turned 
to  his  forge.  It  seemed  to  her  extraordinary  that 
almost  at  once  he  had  more  than  he  could  do,  and  his 
brief  explanation  that  his  was  the  lowest  bid  on  a 
contract  for  pipe-fitting  left  her  singularly  uninformed. 
He  was  childishly  irritated  at  being  questioned,  and 
Ann  early  decided  upon  the  wisdom  of  a  silent  partner- 
ship. It  was  not,  it  is  true,  what  she  had  imagined  her 
life  with  Peter  would  be,  on  the  morning  they  had  dis- 
cussed it  in  Washington  Square,  but  after  two  months 
of  marriage  Ann  felt  infinitely  removed  from  the  girl 
she  had  been.  She  was  a  housewife,  absorbed  in  her 
duties.  Excitement  of  a  vicarious  sort  no  longer  ap- 
pealed to  her.  She  was  all  wife;  her  life  hung  on 
Peter.  Up  to  the  time  of  her  marriage  she  had  never 
heard  of  the  word  passion,  except  as  applied  to  fits  of 
temper.  Straight  from  her  reticent  background,  she 
felt,  with  glowing  cheeks,  that  she  and  Peter  had 
made  unique  discoveries,  and  she  was  sorry  for  the 
rest  of  the  world,  outside  their  secret  pale.  It  was 
not  all  passion,  either,  or,  at  any  rate,  not  exclusively 
that.  The  two  laughed  at  each  other  like  children; 
they  played  foolish  games  together,  and  called  each 
other  ridiculous  names.  Their  interests  were  abso- 


394  THE  CORTLANDTS 

lutely  united;  neither  one  had  friends  in  Chicago,  nor 
felt  the  lack  of  them,  in  their  absorbing  discovery  of 
each  other. 

In  due  time  Ann's  trunk  arrived.  Her  things  were 
just  as  she  had  left  them,  but  there  was  not  a  word 
from  the  Cortlandts.  She  unpacked  trinkets  and  mo- 
mentos  of  her  youth, — among  them  Densley's  Manet, 
strangely  glowing  on  her  chocolate  colored  walls, — 
and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  memories  of  her 
guardian  they  waked.  Had  he  come  back  from 
Europe,  she  wondered?  Was  he  well?  Did  he  miss 
her?  But  no, — she  did  not  need  to  ask  that,  for  if 
he  thought  of  her  with  any  tenderness  he  would  surely 
have  written  to  her.  Peter  came  in  for  dinner,  to 
find  her  brooding,  and  his  meal  was  not  ready.  He 
said  unkind  things  of  the  Cortlandts,  while  she  fried 
his  chops. 

About  her  the  war  roared  on,  and  now  her  interest 
centered  in  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee,  for  the  west- 
ern newspapers  printed  little  of  the  exploits  of  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac.  Often  Peter  took  her  to  Union 
mass  meetings.  They  stood  swaying  back  and  forth 
with  the  crowd  in  the  Court-House  Square  on  the 
night  that  George  Root's  Battle  Cry  of  Freedom  was 
sung  for  the  first  time.  Every  one  joined  in  the 
chorus,  and  Ann  put  all  the  fervor  of  her  nature  into 
it,  but  except  for  fiery  moments  like  this,  the  war 
seemed  to  her  remote.  It  was  dwarfed  by  her  personal 
experience.  Her  girlhood,  with  its  uncertainties  and 
tremors,  was  done,  and  marriage  engulfed  her. 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         395 

In  November  she  heard  from  Fanny. 

DEAR  ANN  : 

I  write  this  letter  to  you  with  great  apprehension, 
for  my  mother  has  strictly  forbidden  further  inter- 
course between  us,  and  you  know  mama,  Ann.  I  am 
just  scared  to  death,  but  I  can  not  get  married  without 
telling  you  about  it. 

I  am  to  wed  my  cousin  Hendricks  on  the  twentieth 
day  of  December,  when  he  is  to  have  a  leave  of  absence 
from  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  for  a  whole  fortnight. 
These  tidings  may  not  be  surprising  to  you,  but  now 
that  Hendricks  truly  loves  me,  I  am  indeed  a  happy 
girl. 

I  am  to  be  wed  in  your  white  satin  dress,  which 
you  left  behind  you.  It  is  too  long  in  the  skirt  for 
me,  and  too  small  in  the  waist,  but  those  are  defects 
easily  remedied.  Your  other  fine  clothes  my  uncle, 
who  is  now  returned  from  Europe,  directs  shall  be 
sent  you,  even  the  black  velvet,  which  surely  is  more 
suited  to  a  New  York  matron  than  to  the  wife  of  a 
Chicago  mechanic. 

How  could  you  so  misbehave  yourself,  Ann,  when 
my  uncle  had  even  made  your  wedding  settlements, 
and  that  good  young  count  so  adored  you?  My 
mother  says  blood  will  tell,  and  I  suppose  she  is  right, 
tout  I  hope  you  are  happy,  even  with  Peter. 

With  love, 

FANNY. 

Until  she  knew  her  guardian  had  returned  and  had 
made  no  effort  to  communicate  with  her,  Ann  was  not 
aware  of  how  confidently  she  had  counted  on  his  doing 
so.  Even  the  fact  that  Mr.  Cortlandt's  silence  shut 


396  THE  CORTLANDTS 

her  off  with  her  husband,  was  an  inadequate  consola- 
tion. She  could  not  rouse  herself  to  any  interest  in 
Fanny's  marriage,  although  she  was  indignant  at  her 
slighting  reference  to  Peter. 

"They  still  do  not  think  you  are  good  enough  for 
me,"  she  told  him.  "It's  laughable." 

Things  had  been  going  better  with  Peter  of  late. 
He  had  finished  his  contract  for  the  pipe-fitting,  and 
had  been  well  paid  for  it.  He  talked  hopefully  of 
Cuture  work  in  connection  with  the  new  railroad  lines 
which  were  to  center  in  Chicago.  Ann  was  enor- 
mously proud  of  him;  every  day  that  passed  buried 
deeper  that  remote  time  when  she  had  been  his 
superior. 

He  took  Fanny's  letter  and  slowly  read  it.  Ann 
watched  his  face  eagerly,  but  his  expression  did  not 
change.  For  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  her  that 
Peter  had  an  extraordinary  power  of  masking  his 
feelings.  "It's  natural  enough,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
"but  things  will  go  hard  with  me  if  I  don't  make  more 
of  a  success  of  my  life  than  your  Captain  Renneslyer 
does  of  his.  Fanny's  all  right,  though.  Used  to  sit 
beside  my  bed,  as  sweet  and  pretty  as  a  pink,  too 
scared  to  say  much."  He  glanced  over  the  note  again, 
briefly.  Then  he  said,  "That  velvet  dress,  Annie,  why 
«lcn't  you  send  it  back  to  her  for  a  wedding  present?" 

Ann  gasped  at  the  magnificence  of  this  gesture,  but 
she  was  delighted  at  the  idea;  after  all,  she  wanted 
to  send  Fanny  something  in  proof  of  her  affection. 

It  was  only  the  next  day  she  looked  out  of  her 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         397 

front  window  to  see  a  station  hack  come  laboring  down 
the  street.  It  made  slow  progress  through  the  heavy 
mud  and  broken  planks  of  the  roadway,  now  dropping 
into  holes  that  threatened  to  dismember  it,  and  then 
straining  perilously  as  it  burst  out  of  them.  Ann  was 
sorry  for  the  laboring  horses,  but  her  interest  was  im- 
personal until,  unexpectedly,  they  stopped  before  her 
gate,  and  a  sudden  premonition  turned  her  white.  A 
hand  on  the  door  handle  inside  the  lowered  glass  had 
a  familiar  look,  and  she  could  see  the  sharp  lines  of  a 
silk  hat  in  the  dusk  of  the  interior.  She  rushed  to  the 
front  door  and  flung  it  wide,  and  there  was  her  guar- 
dian in  her  open  gate.  He  paused  at  the  bottom  of  the 
short  flight  of  steps,  looking  up  at  her,  too  agitated  to 
move.  The  sun  was  in  his  eyes;  Ann's  red  hair  was 
like  a  nimbus  about  the  pearl  white  of  her  face.  In  the 
instant  that  they  stood  gazing  at  each  other,  their  old 
companionship  was  reestablished  without  a  word.  She 
aroused  herself  and  ran  down  to  him;  she  flung  her 
arms  around  him  and  kissed  him;  she  found  that  she 
was  in  tears,  but  it  made  no  difference. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  said,  "My  dear,  to  see  you  again !" 
She  thought  how  old  he  looked,  and  broken.     She 
tried  to  help  him  up  her  steep  steps,  and  once  inside 
the  house  she  told  him  how  sorry  she  was  that  she 
should  have  disappointed  him. 

Mr.  Cortlandt  brushed  all  this  away  with  a  brusk 
gesture.  "Never  mind  that,  Ann,"  he  said.  "Are 
you  happy?  That  is  what  I  came  to  Chicago  to  find 
out." 


398  JHE  CORTLANDTS 

Ann  clung  tightly  to  his  hand.  "Now  that  I  have 
you  again,  I  am,"  she  assured  him.  "I  can't  tell  you 
about  Peter;  you  will  have  to  see  for  yourself.  He 
is  just  right  for  .me,  uncle.  Those  others, — somehow 
they  were  all  wrong." 

"You  are  in  love  with  him,  then?" 

Ann's  wide  eyes  laughed.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I 
should  say  I  am.  I  am  awfully  in  love  with  him.  Of 
course  I  know  he  is  only  a  workman,  but  there  are 
plenty  of  men  out  here,  uncle,  who  began  like  that, 
and  now  they  are  getting  on  their  feet.  He  has  had 
to  add  to  his  shop  already  because  the  Chicago  and 
Galena  Railroad  have  given  him  a  big  contract." 

"You  can  bring  him  back  to  New  York,  Ann.  I 
don't  believe  I  can  live  without  you,  and  I  can  easily 
get  him  something  to  do." 

The  radiant  joy  was  swept  from  Ann's  face.  "It's 
dreadful  not  to  go  to  you  when  you  want  me,"  she  said 
soberly,  "but  Peter  would  never  consent,  uncle.  He 
has  his  own  life  out  here,  and  it  is  my  life  too.  You 
must  understand  about  Peter.  He  loves  his  work 
more  than  anything  in  the  world,  except  me.  Some- 
times I  am  afraid  he  loves  it  more  than  me,  even,  but 
I  am  proud  of  him  for  it,  uncle.  Even  to  be  near 
you,  I  wouldn't  have  him  leave  it." 

The  look  of  discouragement  and  fatigue  cleared 
from  Mr.  Cortlandt's  face.  "That  is  as  it  should  be, 
my  child,"  he  said.  "Possibly  you  have  been  wiser 
than  I  could  have  been  for  you.  You  have  always 
been  an  instinctive  creature.  .  I  should  have 


THE  END  OF  THE  RAINBOW         399 

trusted  to  your  instinct  in  this.  ...  I  hope  I 
shall  like  your  Peter.  .  .  .  And  now  put  on  your 
hat  and  we'll  drive  down  and  surprise  him  at  his 
shop." 

They  drove  back  along  Washington  Street,  which 
was  gay  with  the  crowd  going  to  the  races  at  the  new 
Chicago  Driving  Park.  About  them  the  lusty  young 
town  sprawled  unceremoniously.  The  trees  of  the 
Garden  City  still  held  some  of  their  autumn  leaves; 
the  prairie  sky  above  them  was  a  deep  unsullied  blue ; 
the  clean  wind  off  the  lake  had  an  edge  which  made 
Mr.  Cortlandt  glad  of  his  overcoat.  He  turned  to 
look  at  Ann  snuggled  beside  him,  clear  skinned,  calm 
eyed,  and  keen.  She  had  a  look  of  capacity  for  ex- 
perience, and  something  in  her  eager  acceptance  of  life 
made  the  old  man,  too,  unafraid. 


THE  END 


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GEORGE  W.  OGDEN'S  WESTERN  NOVEK 

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THE  BARON  OF  DIAMOND  TAIL 

The  Elk  Mountain  Cattle  Co.  had  not  paid  a  dividend  in  years  ; 
so  Edgar  Barrett,  fresh  from  the  navy,  was  sent  West  to  see  what 
was  wrong  at  the  ranch.  The  tale  of  this  tenderfoot  outwitting  the 
buckaroos  at  their  own  play  will  sweep  you  into  the  action  of  this 
salient  western  novel. 

THE  BONDBOY 

Joe  Newbolt,  bound  out  by  force  of  family  conditions  to  work  for 
a  number  of  years,  is  accused  of  murder  and  circumstances  are 
against  him.  His  mouth  is  sealed;  he  cannot,  as  a  gentleman,  utter 
the  words  that  would  clear  him.  A  dramatic,  romantic  tale  of  intense 
interest. 

CLAIM  NUMBER  ONE 

Dr.  Warren  Slavens  drew  claim  number  one,  which  entitled  hhn 
to  first  choice  of  rich  lands  on  an  Indian  reservation  in  Wyoming.  It 
meant  a  fortune  ;  but  before  he  established  his  ownership  he  had  a 
hard  battle  with  crooks  and  politicians. 

THE  DUKE  OF  CHIMNEY  BUTTE 

When  Jerry  Lambert,  "the  Duke,"  attempts  to  safeguard  the 
cattle  ranch  of  Vesta  Fhilbrook  from  thieving  neighbors,  his  work  is 
appallingly  handicapped  because  of  Grace  Kerr,  one  of  the  chief  agi- 
tators, and  a  deadlyenemy  of  Vesta's.  A  stirring  tale  of  brave  deeds, 
^un-play  and  a  love  that  shines  above  all. 

fHE  FLOCKMASTER  OF  POISON  CREEK 

John  Mackenzie  trod  the  trail  from  Jasper  to  the  great  sheep 
country  where  fortunes  were  being  made  by  the  flock-masters. 
Shepherding  was  not  a  peaceful  pursuit  in  those  bygone  days.  Ad- 
venture met  him  at  every  turn — there  is  a  girl  of  course — men  fight 
their  best  fights  for  a  woman — it  is  an  epic  of  the  sheeplands. 

THE  LAND  OF  LAST  CHANCE 

Jim  Timberlake  and  Capt.  David  Scott  waited  with  restless 
thousands  on  the  Oklahoma  line  for  the  signal  to  dash  across  the 
border.  How  the  city  of  Victory  arose  overnight  on  the  plains,  how 
people  savagely  defended  their  claims  against  the  "sooners;  "  how 
good  men  and  bad  played  politics,  makes  a  strong  story  of  growth 
and  American  initiative. 

TRAIL'S  END 

Ascalon  was  the  end  of  the  trail  for  thirsty  cowboys  who  gave 
vent  to  their  pent-up  feelings  without  restraint.  Calvin  Morgan  was 
not  concerned  with  its  wickedness  until  Seth  Craddock's  malevolence 
directed  itself  against  him.  He  did  not  emerge  from  the  maelstrom 
until  he  had  obliterated  every  vestige  of  lawlessness,  and  assured 
himself  01  the  safety  of  a  certain  dark-eyed  girl. 

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RUBY   M.    AYRES1    NOVELS 

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THE  MAN  WITHOUT  A  HEART 

Why  was  Barbara  held  captive  in  a  deserted  hermit's  hut  for  days  by  a  "  man 
without  a  heart  "  and  in  the  end  how  was  it  that  she  held  the  winning  card*. 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROGUE 

Twenty-four  hours  after  his  release  from  prison  Bruce  Lawn  finds  himself  pity- 
ing- a  most  surprising  role  in  a  drama  of  human  relationships  that  sweeps  on  to  a 
wonderfully  emotional  climax. 

THE  MATHERSON  MARRIAGE 

She  married  for  money.  With  her  own  hands  she  had  locked  the  door  on  hap- 
piness and  thrown  away  the  key.  But,  read  the  story  which  is  very  interesting  and 
well  told. 

RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play  strange  tricks  with  women's 
•onls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ?  ' 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "A  Bachelor  Husband"  will 
particularly  interest,  and  strangely  enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conven- 
tional minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  fine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a  terrific  contrast  be- 
tween the  woman  whose  love  was  of  the  flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF   BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try  to  build  their  wedded 
life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each  other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each 
other  in  the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The  man  was  fine,  clean, 
fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of  strength  and  passion. 


Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess  and  inherits  millions, 
but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but  we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ayres  to  tell 
you  as  only  she  can. 


WINDS  OF  THE  WQRLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  r 
but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but  we  must 
you  as  only  she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no  one  who  has  loved  or 
hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss.  The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with  love  rather  than  the 
person  they  believed  the  object  of  their  affections  ?  That  was  Esther  I  But  she 
passes  through  the  crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

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JACKSON  GREGORYS  NOVELS 

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THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 

The  story  of  a  strong  man's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  human- 
ity, and  of  a  beautiful  girl  s  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth  into 
a  courageous  strong-willed  woman. 

DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.  They  mec* 
a  rancher  who  loses  his  heart,  aad  become  involved  in  a  feud.  An  intensely' 
exciting  story. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

Encircled  with  enemies,  distrusted,  Steve  defends  his  rights.  How  h» 
won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved  is  the  story  filled  wtth  breathlest 
situations. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  with  the  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band.  Thrills  and  excitement  sweep  the 
reader  along  to  the  end. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  How,  with  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmates  Trevor's 
tfcheme  makes  fascinating  reading. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected  of  killing  his  brother  after  a  violent  quarrel.  Finan- 
cial complications,  villains,  a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  all  go  to  male* 
up  a  thrilling  romance. 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranch  much  to  h*T 
chagrin.  There  is  "  another  man  "  who  complicates  matters,  but  all  turns- 
out  as  it  should  in  this  tale  of  romance  and  adventure. 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  is  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suspicion  fastens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  soon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty.  Intensely  exciting,  here  it  • 
real  story  of  the  Great  Far  West. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Drennan  had  grown  hard  through  loss  of  faith  in  men  he  had 
hinted.  A  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  he  finds  a  match  in  Ygerne 
whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  the  "  Lone  Wolf." 

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PETER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

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THE  PRIDE  OF  PALOMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell  1  And 
« the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay ;  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum- 
ber king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk.' 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS  I 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Cappy  Kicks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  was 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:  MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal- 
lion sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  McGuff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasquai, 
c  jun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

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EDGAR    RICE    BURROUGH'S 
NOVELS 

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TARZAN  AND  THE  GOLDEN  LION 

A  tale  of  the  African  wilderness  which  appeals  to  all  reader* 
of  fiction. 

TARZAN  THE  TERRIBLE 

Further  thrilling  adventures  of  Tarzan  while  seeking  his  wife 
in  Africa. 

TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

Tells  of  Tarzan's  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in  seeking 
vengeance  for  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan  proves 
his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

AT  THE  EARTH'S  CORE 

An  astonishing  series  of  adventures  in  a  world  located  inside 
of  the  Earth.  t 

THE  MUCKER 

The  story  of  Billy  Byrne — as  extraordinary  a  character  at  the 
famous  Tarzan. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession  of  the 
ivierdsst  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

t  >  John  Carter's  adventures  on  Mars,  where  he  fights  the  fero- 
cious "plant  men,"  and  defies  Issus,  the  Goddess  of  Death. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

Old  acquaintances,  made  in  two  other  stories  reappear,  Tars 
Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others. 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  story  centers  around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son 
of  John  Carter  and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 

THE  CHESSMEN  OF  MARS 

^  The  adventures  of  Princess  Tara  in  the  land  of  headless  men, 
creatures  with  the  power  of  detaching  their  heads  from  their 
bodies  and  replacing  them  at  will. 

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